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UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

!       SAN  DIEGO      J 


BY   CY   WARMAN 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 

A  Story  of  the  Great  Burlington  Strike 
12mo.  Cloth,  $1.25 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  RAILROAD 

(The  Story  of  the  West  Series.) 
Illustrated.  12rao.  Cloth,  $1.50 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


SNOW  ON  THE   HEADLIGHT 


SNOW    ON    THE 
HEADLIGHT 


^Burlington  Strike 


BY    CY     WARMAN 

AUTHOR    OF    THE    STORY    OF    THE     RAILROAD,     THE 

EXPRESS      MESSENGER,      TALES     OF      AN      ENGINEER, 

FRONTIER     STORIES,     ETC. 


jfteto  gorfe 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
MDCCCXCIX 


Copyright,  1891),  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 


PREFACE 


IT 

Here  is  a  Decoy  Duck  stuffed  with  Oysters. 

The  Duck  is  mere  Fiction: 

The  Oysters  are  Facts. 

IT 

If  you  Jind  the  Duck  wholesome,  and  the 
Oysters  hurt  you,  it  is  probably  because  you 
had  a  hand  in  the  making  of  this  bit  of 
History,  and  in  the  creation  of  these  Facts. 

THE    AUTHOR 


SNOW    ON    THE 


CHAPTER   FIRST 

IjTooD  managers  are  made  from  messen 
ger  boys,  brakemen,  wipers  and  telegraph 
ers  ;  just  as  brave  admirals  are  produced 
in  due  time  by  planting  a  cadet  in  a  naval 
school.  From  two  branches  of  the  service 
come  the  best  equipped  men  in  the  railroad 
world  —  from  the  motive-power  department 
and  from  the  train  service.  This  one  came 
from  the  mechanical  department,  and  he 
spent  his  official  life  trying  to  conceal  the 
fact  —  striving  to  be  just  to  all  his  em 
ployees  and  to  show  no  partiality  towards 
the  department  from  whence  he  sprang  — 
but  always  failing. 

"  These  men  will  not  strike,"  he  contended  : 
"  The  brains  of  the  train  are  in  the  engine." 
"  O,  I  don't  think,"  Mr.  Josler,  the  general 
superintendent,  would  say  ;  and  if  you  fol- 

LI  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


lowed  his  accent  it  would  take  you  right 
back  to  the  heart  of  Germany  :  "  Giff  me  a 
goot  conductor,  an'  I  git  over  the  roat." 
No  need  to  ask  where  he  came  from. 
As  the  grievance  grew  in  the  hands  of  the 
"grief"  committee,  and  the  belief  became 
fixed  in  the  minds  of  the  officials  that  the 
employees  were  looking  for  trouble,  the 
situation  waxed  critical.  "  Might  as  well 
make  a  clean  job  of  it,"  the  men  would  say  ; 
and  then  every  man  who  had  a  grievance,  a 
wound  where  there  had  been  a  grievance  or 
a  fear  that  he  might  have  something  to  com 
plain  of  in  the  future,  contributed  to  the  real 
original  grievance  until  the  trouble  grew  so 
that  it  appalled  the  officials  and  caused  them 
to  stiffen  their  necks.  In  this  way  the  men 
and  the  management  were  being  wedged 
farther  and  farther  apart.  FinaUy,  the  gen 
eral  manager,  foreseeing  what  war  would 
cost  the  company  and  the  employees,  made 
an  effort  to  reach  a  settlement,  but  the  very 
effort  was  taken  as  evidence  of  weakness, 
[2] 


CHAPTER   I 


and  instead  of  yielding  something  the  men 
took  courage,  and  lengthened  the  list  of 
grievances.  His  predecessor  had  said  to  the 
president  of  the  company  when  the  last 
settlement  was  effected :  "  This  is  our  last 
compromise.  The  next  time  we  shall  have  to 
fight — my  back  is  to  the  wall."  But,  when  the 
time  came  for  the  struggle,  he  had  not  the 
heart  to  make  the  fight,  and  so  resigned  and 
went  west,  where  he  died  shortly  afterwards, 
and  dying,  escaped  the  sorrow  that  must 
have  been  his  had  he  lived  to  see  how  his  old, 
much-loved  employees  were  made  to  suffer. 
Now  the  grievance  committee  came  with  an 
ultimatum  to  the  management.  "Yes,  or 
No  ? "  demanded  the  chairman  with  a  Na 
poleonic  pose.  But  the  general  superinten 
dent  was  loth  to  answer. 
"Yes,  or  No?" 

Mr.  Josler  hesitated,  equivocated,  and  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  confer  with  his  chief. 
"  Yes,  or  No  ? "  demanded  the  fearless  leader, 
lifting  his  hand  like  an  auctioneer. 
[3] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"Veil,  eef  you  put  it  so,  I  must  say  No," 
said  the  superintendent  and  instantly  the 
leader  turned  on  his  heel.  He  did  not  take 
the  trouble  to  say  good-day,  but  snapped 
his  finger  and  strode  away. 
Now  the  other  members  of  the  committee 
got  up  and  went  out,  pausing  to  say  good 
morning  to  the  superintendent  who  stood 
up  to  watch  the  procession  pass  out  into 
the  wide  hah1.  One  man,  who  confirmed 
the  general  manager's  belief  that  there  were 
brains  among  the  engine-men,  lingered  to 
express  his  regrets  that  the  conference 
should  have  ended  so  abruptly. 
The  news  of  this  man's  audacity  spread 
among  the  higher  officials,  so  that  when 
the  heads  of  the  brotherhoods  came— 
which  is  a  last  resort  —  the  company  were 
almost  as  haughty  and  remote  as  the  head 
of  the  grievance  committee  had  been. 
From  that  moment  the  men  and  the  man 
agement  lost  faith  in  each  other.  More, 
they  refused  even  to  understand  each  other. 
[4] 


CHAPTER   I 


Whichever  side  made  a  slight  concession  it 
was  made  to  suffer  for  it,  for  such  an  act 
was  sure  to  be  interpreted  by  the  other  side 
as  a  sign  of  weakening.  In  vain  did  the 
heads  of  the  two  organizations,  represent 
ing  the  engine-men,  strive  to  overcome  the 
mischief  done  by  the  local  committee,  and 
to  reach  a  settlement.  They  showed,  by 
comparison,  that  this,  the  smartest  road  in 
the  West,  was  paying  a  lower  rate  of  wages 
to  its  engine-men  than  was  paid  by  a  major 
ity  of  the  railroads  of  the  country.  They 
urged  the  injustice  of  the  classification  of 
engineers,  but  the  management  claimed  that 
the  system  was  just,  and  later  received  the 
indorsement,  on  this  point,  of  eight-tenths 
of  the  daily  press.  Eight  out  of  ten  of  these 
editors  knew  nothing  of  the  real  merits  or 
demerits  of  the  system,  but  they  thought 
they  knew,  and  so  they  wrote  about  it,  the 
people  read  about  it  and  gave  or  withheld 
their  sympathy  as  the  news  affected  them. 
When  the  heads  of  the  brotherhoods  an- 
[5] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


nounced  their  inability  to  reach  an  agree 
ment  they  were  allowed  to  return  to  their 
respective  homes,  beyond  the  borders  of  the 
big  state,  and  out  of  reach  of  the  Illinois 
conspiracy  law.  A  local  man  "with  sand  to 
fight"  was  chosen  commander-in-chief,  and 
after  one  more  formal  effort  to  reach  a  set 
tlement  he  called  the  men  out. 
On  a  blowy  Sunday  afternoon  in  February 
the  chief  clerk  received  a  wire  calling  him 
to  the  office  of  the  general  manager.  He 
found  his  chief  pacing  the  floor.  As  the  sec 
retary  entered,  the  general  manager  turned, 
faced  him,  and  then,  waving  a  hand  over  the 
big  flat-topped  desk  that  stood  in  the  centre 
of  his  private  office,  said  :  "  Take  this  all 
away,  John.  The  engineers  are  going  to 
strike  and  I  want  nothing  to  come  to  my 
desk  that  does  not  relate  to  that,  until  this 
fight  is  over." 

Noting  the  troubled,   surprised  look  upon 
the  secretary's  face  the  manager  called  him. 
"  Come  here  John.  Are  you  afraid  ?  Does 
[  6]  " 


CHAPTER   I 


the  magnitude  of  it  all  appal  you — do  you 
want  to  quit  ?  If  you  do  say  so  now." 
As  he  spoke  the  piercing,  searching  eyes  of 
the  general  manager  swept  the  very  soul  of 
his  secretary.  The  two  men  looked  at  each 
other.  Instantly  the  shadow  passed  from  the 
long,  sad  face  of  the  clerk,  and  in  its  place 
sat  an  expression  of  calm  determination. 
Now  the  manager  spoke  not  a  word,  but 
reaching  for  the  hand  of  his  faithful  assis 
tant,  pressed  it  firmly,  and  turned  away. 
There  was  no  spoken  pledge,  no  vow,  no 
promise  of  loyalty,  but  in  that  mute  hand 
clasp  there  was  an  oath  of  allegiance. 
At  four  o'clock  on  the  following  morning — 
Monday,  February  the  27th,  1888, — every 
locomotive  engineer  and  fireman  in  the  ser 
vice  of  the  Chicago,  Burlington  and  Quincy 
Railroad  Company  quit  work.  The  fact  that 
not  one  man  remained  in  the  service  an 
hour  after  the  order  went  out,  shows  how 
firmly  fixed  was  the  faith  of  the  men  in  the 
ability  of  the  "Twin  Brotherhoods"  to  beat 
[7] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  company,  and  how  universal  was  the 
belief  that  their  cause  was  just.  All  trains  in 
motion  at  the  moment  when  the  strike  was 
to  take  effect  were  run  to  their  destination, 
or  to  divisional  stations,  rather,  and  there 
abandoned  by  the  crew. 
The  conductors,  brakemen  and  baggage 
men  were  not  in  the  fight,  and  when  di 
rected  by  the  officials  to  take  the  engines 
and  try  to  run  them  or  fire  them,  they 
found  it  hard  to  refuse  to  obey  the  order. 
Some  of  them  had  no  thought  of  refusing, 
but  cheerfully  took  the  engines  out,  and  — 
drowned  them.  That  was  a  wild,  exciting  day 
for  the  officials,  but  it  was  soon  forgotten  in 
days  that  made  that  one  seem  like  a  pleas 
ant  dream. 

The  long  struggle  that  had  been  going  on 
openly  between  the  officials  and  the  em 
ployees  was  now  enacted  privately,  silently, 
deep  in  the  souls  of  men.  Each  individ 
ual  must  face  the  situation  and  decide  for 
himself  upon  which  side  he  would  enlist. 
[8] 


CHAPTER   I 


Hundreds  of  men  who  had  good  positions 
and  had,  personally,  no  grievance,  felt  in 
honor  bound  to  stand  by  their  brothers,  and 
these  men  were  the  heroes  of  the  strike,  for 
it  is  infinitely  finer  to  fight  for  others  than 
for  one's  self.  When  a  man  has  toiled  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  to  gain  a  comfortable 
place  it  is  not  without  a  struggle  that  he 
throws  it  all  over,  in  an  unselfish  effort  to 
help  a  brother  on.  The  Brotherhood  of  Loco 
motive  Engineers  had  grown  to  be  respected 
by  the  public  because  of  almost  countless 
deeds  of  individual  heroism.  It  was  deferred 
to — and  often  encouraged  by  railway  offi 
cials,  because  it  had  improved  the  service 
a  thousand  per  cent.  The  man  who  climbed 
down  from  the  cab  that  morning  on  the 
"Q"  was  as  far  ahead  of  the  man  who  held 
the  seat  twenty  years  earlier,  as  an  English 
captain  is  ahead  of  the  naked  savage  whose 
bare  feet  beat  the  sands  of  the  Soudan. 
By  keeping  clear  of  entangling  alliances 
and  carefully  avoiding  serious  trouble,  the 
[  9] 

\ 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Brotherhood  had,  in  the  past  ten  years, 
piled  up  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars. 
This  big  roll  of  the  root  of  all  evil  served 
now  to  increase  the  confidence  of  the  lead 
ers,  and  to  encourage  the  men  to  strike. 
At  each  annual  convention  mayors,  gov 
ernors  and  prominent  public  men  paraded 
the  virtues  of  the  Brotherhood  until  its 
members  came  to  regard  themselves  as  just 
a  little  bit  bigger,  braver  and  better  than 
ordinary  mortals.  Public  speakers  and  writ 
ers  were  for  ever  predicting  that  in  a  little 
while  the  Brotherhood  would  be  invinci 
ble.*  And  so,  hearing  only  good  report  of 
itself  the  Brotherhood  grew  over-confident, 
and  entered  this  great  fight  top-heavy  be- 

*  "  /  dare  say  that  the  engineers  strike  will  end,  as  all  strikes 
have  hitherto  ended,  in  disaster  to  the  strikers.  But  I  am  sure 
that  strikes  will  not  always  end  so.  It  is  only  a  question  of 
time,  and  of  a  very  little  time,  till  the  union  of  labor  shall  be 
so  perfect  that  nothing  can  defeat  it.  We  may  say  this  will  be 
a  very  good  time  or  a  very  bad  time  ;  all  the  same  it  is  com 
ing."  —  W.  D.  Howells,  in  Harpers  Weekly,  April  21, 
1888. 

[10] 


CHAPTER   I 


cause  of  an  exaggerated   idea  of  its   own 
greatness. 

The  Engineers'  Brotherhood  was  not  loved 
by  other  organizations.  The  conductors  dis 
liked  it,  and  it  had  made  itself  offensive  to 
the  firemen  because  of  its  persistent  refusal 
to  federate  or  affiliate  in  any  manner  with 
other  organizations  having  similar  aims  and 
objects.  But  now,  finding  itself  in  the  midst 
of  a  hard  fight,  it  evinced  a  desire  to  com 
bine.  The  brakemen  refused  to  join  the  en- 
ginemen,  though  sympathizing  with  them, 
but  the  switchmen  were  easily  persuaded. 
The  switchman  of  a  decade  ago  could  al 
ways  be  counted  upon  to  fight.  In  behind 
his  comb,  toothbrush  and  rabbit's  foot,  he 
carried  a  neatly  folded,  closely  written  list 
of  grievances  upon  which  he  was  ready  to 
do  battle.  Peace  troubled  his  mind. 
Some  one  signed  a  solemn  compact  in 
which  the  engineers  bound  themselves  to 
support  the  switchmen — paying  them  as 
often  as  the  enginemen  drew  money — and 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  switchmen  went  out.  They  struck  vig 
orously,  and  to  a  man,  and  remained  loyal 
long  after  the  Brotherhood  had  broken  its 
pledge  and  cut  off  the  pay  of  the  strikers.* 
In  this  battle  the  switchmen  were  the  brav 
est  of  the  brave. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  month  of  the  strike 
the  lines  were  pretty  well  drawn.  There  was 
no  neutral  ground  for  employees.  A  man 
was  either  with  the  company  or  with  the 
strikers. 

*  At  the  annual  convention  held  at  Atlanta,  in  the  autumn  of 
that  year  (1888)  the  engineers  dropped  the  sympathy-strik 
ing  switchmen  from  the  pay  roll,  at  the  same  time  increasing 
the  pay  of  striking  engineers  from  $40-00  to  $50.00  a  month. 


[  12] 


CHAPTER    SECOND 

(JTOOD  morning,  John,"  said  the  general 
manager  coming  softly  through  the  little 
gate  that  fenced  off  a  small  reservation  in 
the  outer  office,  and  beyond  which  the  sec 
retary  and  his  assistants  worked  :  "  How 
goes  the  battle?" 

"Well,  on  the  whole,"  said  the  chief  clerk, 
gathering  up  a  batch  of  telegrams  that 
made  up  the  official  report  from  the  vari 
ous  division  superintendents ;  "  it  was  a 
rough  night.  Three  yard  engines  disabled  in 
the  Chicago  yards,  freight  train  burned  at 
Burlington,  head-end  collision  on  the  B.  & 
M.  Division,  two  engineers  and  one  fireman 
killed,  ware-house  burned  at  Peoria,  two 
bridges  blown  up  in  Iowa,  two  trains 
ditched  near  Denver,  three — " 
"  Well !  well ! "  broke  in  the  general  man 
ager,  "that  will  do."  The  clerk  stopped 
short,  the  office  boy  passed  out  through 
the  open  door  and  a  great  swell  of  silence 
surged  into  the  room. 

[13] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


After  taking  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the 
office,  the  manager  stopped  at  the  secre 
tary's  desk  and  added  :  "  We  must  win  this 
strike.  The  directors  meet  to-day  and  those 
English  share-holders  are  getting  nervous. 
They  can't  understand  that  this  fight  is 
necessary  —  that  we  are  fighting  for  peace 
hereafter  ;  weeding  out  a  pestilence  that 
threatens,  not  only  the  future  of  railway 
corporations,  but  the  sacred  rights  of  Amer 
ican  citizens  —  the  right  to  engage  in 
whatever  business  or  calling  one  cares  to 
follow,  and  to  employ  whom  he  will  at 
whatever  wages  the  employer  and  em 
ployed  may  agree  upon.  Let  these  strikers 
win  and  we  shall  have  a  strike  as  often  as 
the  moon  changes.  When  I  endeavor  to 
reach  an  agreement  with  them,  they  take 
it  that  the  company  is  weakening,  and  the 
leaders  will  listen  to  nothing.  I  shudder  to 
think  what  is  in  store  for  them  and  what 
they  must  suffer  before  they  can  under 
stand." 

[  14  ] 


CHAPTER  II 


With  that  the  general  manager  passed  into 
the  private  office  and  the  chief  clerk,  who 
had  been  at  his  post  ah1  night,  turned  to  a 
steaming  breakfast  which  the  porter  had 
just  brought  from  a  cafe  across  the  street. 
The  postman  came  in,  grave-faced  and  si 
lent,  and  left  a  big  bundle  of  letters  on  the 
secretary's  desk.  Most  of  the  mail  was  offi 
cial,  but  now  and  then  there  came  letters 
from  personal  friends  who  held  similar  posi 
tions  on  other  roads,  assuring  the  general 
manager  of  their  sympathy,  and  that  they 
would  aid  his  company  whenever  they 
could  do  so  secretly  and  without  exciting 
their  own  employees. 

Many  letters  came  from  stockholders  pro 
testing  vigorously  against  a  continuation  of 
the  strike.  Some  anonymous  letters  warned 
the  company  that  great  calamity  awaited 
the  management,  unless  the  demands  of  the 
employees  were  acceded  to  and  the  strike 
ended.  A  glance  into  the  newspapers  that 
came  in,  showed  that  three-fourths  of  tke 
[15] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


press  of  the  country  praised  the  manage 
ment  and  referred  to  the  strikers  as  dynam 
iters  and  anarchists.  The  other  fourth  re 
joiced  at  each  drop  in  the  stocks  and  called 
every  man  a  martyr  who  was  arrested  at 
the  instigation  of  the  railroad  company.  The 
reports  sent  out  daily  by  the  company  and 
those  collected  at  the  headquarters  of  the 
strikers  agreed  exactly  as  to  date,  but  dis 
agreed  in  all  that  followed. 
The  secretary,  somewhat  refreshed  by  a 
good  breakfast,  waded  through  the  mail, 
making  marks  and  notations  occasionally 
with  a  blue  pencil  on  the  turned  down  cor 
ners  of  letters. 

Some  of  the  communications  were  referred 
to  the  general  traffic  manager,  some  to 
the  general  passenger  agent,  others  to  the 
superintendent  of  motive  power  and  ma 
chinery.  They  were  all  sorted  carefully  and 
deposited  in  wicker  baskets,  bearing  the 
initials  of  the  different  departments.  Many 
were  dropped  into  the  basket  marked  "G. 


CHAPTER   II 


M."  but  most  of  the  matter  was  disposed 
of  by  the  secretary  himself,  for  the  chief 
clerk  of  a  great  railway  system,  having  the 
signature  of  the  General  Manager,  is  one  of 
the  busiest,  and  usuaUy  one  of  the  brightest 
men  in  the  company's  employ. 
The  general  manager  in  his  private  office 
pored  over  the  morning  papers,  puffing  vig 
orously  now  and  then  as  he  perused  a  para 
graph  that  praised  the  strikers,  but,  when  the 
literature  was  to  his  liking,  smoked  slowly 
and  contentedly,  like  a  man  without  a  care. 
Such  were  the  scenes  and  conditions  in  and 
about  the  general  offices  of  the  Chicago 
Burlington  &  Quincy  Railroad  Company 
when  a  light  foot-step  was  heard  in  the  hall 
and  a  gentle  voice  came  singing : 

"Always  together  in  sunshine  and  rain. 
Facing  the  weather — " 

"  Good  morning,  Patsy,"  said  the  chief  clerk, 
looking  up  as  Patsy  paused  at  the  gate,  re 
moved  his  hat  and  bowed  two  or  three  short 

[  17] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


quick  bows  with  his  head  without  bowing 

his  body. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Patsy,  "  I  thought 

you  were  alone." 

"Well,  I  am  alone." 

"No  you're   not  —  I'm   here.  Always  to 

gether— 

"  Come  !  Come  !  Patsy  don't  get  funny  this 

morning." 

"  Get  funny  !  how  can  I  get  funny  when 

I  'm  already  funny  ?  I  was  born  funny— 

they  had  fun  with  me  at  the  christening, 

and  I  expect  they  'II  have  the  divil's  own 

time  with  me  at  the  wake.  Always— 

"  Sh  !  Sh  !  —  Be  quiet,"  said  the  secretary, 

nodding  his  head  and  his  thumb  in  the  di 

rection  of  the  door  of  the  private  office. 

"Is  the  governor  in  ?  "  asked  Patsy. 

"Yes." 

"  Now  that  's  lucky  for  me,  for  I  wanted  to 

ask  a  favor  and  I  want  it  to-day,  and  if  the 

governor  was  not  in  you  would  say,  *  1  11 

have  to  see  the  governor  ;  '  then  when  I  came 

[  18] 


CHAPTER  II 


back  you  would  say  '  The  governor  has  left 
the  office,  and  I  forgot  it,'  but  now  that  the 
governor  is  here  you  can  do  it  yourself.  I 
want  to  go  to  Council  Bluffs." 
"All  right,  Patsy,  you  can  go  if  you  can 
persuade  those  friends  of  yours  to  allow  us 
to  run  a  train." 
«  On  the  Q  ? " 

"  That 's  the  only  line  we  control." 
"Not  on  your  salary." 

"Then  you  can't  go,"  said  the  clerk,  as  he 
resumed  the  work  before  him. 
"  What 's  the  matter  with  the  North  West 
ern  ? "  asked  Patsy  in  an  earnest,  pleading 
tone. 

"You  ought  to  know  that  we  can't  give 
passes  over  a  competing  line." 
"  I  do  know  it,  but  you  can  give  me  a  letter 
over  there.  Just  say :  *  Please  give  Patsy 
Daly  transportation,  Chicago  to  Council 
Bluffs  and  return  ; '  that  11  do  the  business. 
You  might  add  a  paragraph  about  me  being 
an  old  and  trusted  employe  and — " 

[  19] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"A  bold  and  mistrusted  striker,  Patsy, 
would  be  nearer  the  card." 
"Now  don't  bring  up  unpleasant  recollec 
tions,"  said  Patsy  with  a  frown  that  didn't 
make  him  look  as  cross  as  some  men  look 
when  they  laugh  :  "It  will  be  a  neat  way 
of  showing  that  the  Q  is  big  enough  to  be 
good  to  her  old  employees,  even  if  her  stock 
is  a  little  down.  What  do  you  say  —  do  I  get 
the  pass  —  does  mother  see  her  railroad  boy 
to-night  ?  " 

The  door  that  was  marked  "  Private  "  opened 
slowly  and  the  general  manager  came  in. 
The  chief  clerk  shuffled  the  letters  while 
Patsy  made  a  desperate  effort  to  look  seri 
ous  and  respectful. 

"What  brings  you  here,  Patsy?"  asked  the 
head  of  the  road,  for  he  was  by  no  means 
displeased   at  seeing  one  of  the   old   em 
ployees  in  the  office  who  was  not  a  mem 
ber  of  a  grievance  committee. 
"  I  want  to  get  a  pass,  if  you  please  sir,  to 
run  down  to  the  Bluffs  and  see  the  folks." 
[20] 


CHAPTER   II 


"Patsy  wants  a  request  for  a  pass  over  the 
North  Western,"  said  the  clerk,  taking  cour 
age  now  that  the  subject  was  opened. 
"  Ah  !  is  that  all  ?  now  suppose  I  ask  you  to 
take  a  passenger  train  out  to-night,  will  you 
do  it  ? "  asked  the  general  manager,  turning 
to  Patsy. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  the  regular  con 
ductor  ? " 

"Joined  the  strikers,"  was  the  reply. 
"  But  the  papers  say  the  strike  is  over." 
"It  is !  but  a  lot  of  you  fellows  don't  seem 
to  know  it." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  it,  and  now  I  must  hurry 
back,  so  as  to  be  ready  to  take  my  run  out. 
Do  I  get  the  pass  ? " 

"  And  you  expect,  when  the  strike  is  off,  to 
go  back  to  your  old  place  ? " 
"Sure,"  said  Patsy, " I  don't  intend  to  quit  you 
as  long  as  you  have  a  brake  for  me  to  turn." 
"  There 's  a  lot  of  brakes   that  nobody  is 
turning  right  now  ;  come,  you  young  rascal, 
will  you  go  to  work  ? " 

[21  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"Now,"  said  the  young  rascal,  "you  know 
what  it  says  at  the  bottom  of  the  time-card  : 
*  In  case  of  doubt  take  the  safe  side.'  I  'm 
waiting  to  see  which  side  is  safe." 
With  that  the  manager  went  back  to  his 
desk  and  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
the  secretary  went  on  with  his  work. 
Patsy  stood  and  looked  out  at  the  window 
for  a  while,  and  then  said  half  to  himself, 
but  so  the  clerk  could  hear  him  :  "  Poor 
little  mother,  how  she  will  miss  me  to 
night." 

The  secretary  said  nothing,  but  leaving  his 
desk  entered  the  office  of  his  chief,  and 
when  they  had  talked  over  the  business  of 
the  hour  and  read  the  story  prepared  by  the 
passenger  department  for  the  press  that  day, 
he  asked  what  should  be  done  for  Patsy. 
"  Oh  !  give  him  the  letter,  I  suppose,  but 
he  's  the  only  employee  on  the  road  I  would 
do  so  much  for." 

"  And  he  's  the  only  one  with  nerve  enough 
to  ask  it,"  said  the  secretary. 
[22]  ' 


CHAPTER   II 


"  Yes,  he  is  a  bit  nervy,  John ;  but  it  is  n't 
an  offensive  sort  of  nerve  ;  and  then  he 's  so 
happy.  Why,  he  really  rests  me  when  he 
comes  in.  He 's  smart,  too,  too  smart  to  be 
a  striker  and  he  may  be  of  some  use  to  us 
yet." 

In  a  little  while  Patsy  went  singing  himself 
out  just  as  he  had  sung  himself  in.  The 
general  manager  sat  watching  the  happy 
youth  from  the  outer  door  of  his  room  until 
the  song  and  the  sound  of  footsteps  died 
away  in  the  wide  hall.  Turning  to  his  desk 
he  sighed  and  said  :  "  Ah,  well !  the  English 
poet  was  right  when  he  wrote : 

*  The  world  that  knows  itself  too  sad 
Is  proud  to  keep  some  faces  glad ! ' " 


[23] 


CHAPTER   THIRD 


_L  ATSY,  the  postman  and  the  newsgath- 
erers,  who  left  the  headquarters  of  the 
company  and  wandered  over  to  the  Grand 
Pacific  where  the  strikers  held  forth,  must 
have  been  struck  forcibly  by  the  vast  differ 
ence  in  the  appearance  of  the  two  places 
upon  this  particular  morning.  At  the  first 
place  all  was  neatness  and  order  in  spite  of 
the  deplorable  condition  of  affairs  outside ; 
and  a  single  man  handled  the  almost  end 
less  flood  of  letters  and  telegrams  that  fell 
like  autumn  leaves  upon  his  desk. 
In  fact,  the  office  boy  and  the  colored  por 
ter  were  the  only  people  about  the  com 
pany's  headquarters  who  showed  any  real 
anxiety. 

At  the  headquarters  of  the  strikers  all  was 
confusion  and  disorder.  The  outer  offices 
and  ante-rooms  were  filled  with  a  vast 
crowd  of  men  who  idled  about,  smoked, 
swapped  stories  and  swore ;  and  some  of 
them,  I  'm  sorry  to  say,  chewed  tobacco 
[24] 


CHAPTER  III 


and  flooded  the  floor  with  inexcusable  filth. 
Even  Mr.  Hogan's  private  office  was  not 
private.  Leading  strikers  and  men  promi 
nent  in  the  Brotherhood  loafed  there  as  the 
others  loafed  outside.  Not  more  than  half 
the  men  about  the  building  had  ever  been 
employed  by  the  Burlington  company. 
There  were  scores  of  "  tramp  "  switchmen 
and  travelling  trainmen,  made  reckless  by 
idleness,  as  men  are  sometimes  made  des 
perate  by  hunger,  with  an  alarmingly  large 
representation  of  real  criminals,  who  fol 
low  strikes  as  "  grafters  "  follow  a  circus.  If 
a  striker  lost  his  temper  and  talked  as  he 
ought  not  to  talk,  this  latter  specimen  was 
always  ready  to  encourage  him  ;  for  what 
ever  promised  trouble  for  others  promised 
profitable  pastime  for  the  criminal.  If  the 
real  workers  could  keep  clear  of  this  class, 
as  well  as  the  idle,  loafing  element  in  their 
own  profession,  ninety  per  cent,  of  the  al 
leged  labor  outrages  would  never  be  com 
mitted.  Very  likely  there  were  a  number  of 
[25] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


detectives  moving  among  the  strikers,  and 
they,  too,  have  been  known  to  counsel  vio 
lence  in  order  to  perpetuate  a  struggle  be 
tween  labor  and  capital  that  they  them 
selves  might  not  be  idle.  It  is  only  in  the 
best  organized  agencies  that  detectives  can 
be  relied  upon  to  take  no  undue  advantage 
of  those  whom  they  are  sent  out  to  detect. 
Over  in  another  part  of  the  same  building, 
where  the  firemen  held  forth,  the  scene  was 
about  the  same,  save  that  the  men  there 
were  younger  in  years  and  louder  in  their 
abuse  of  the  railway  officials  ;  and  gener 
ally  less  discreet. 

"  Always  together  in  sunshine  and  rain, 
Facing  the  weather  atop  o"1  the  train" 

sang  Patsy  as  he  strolled  into  the  private 
office  of  Chairman  Borphy,  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  firemen's  end  of  the  strike. 
Borphy  greeted  Patsy  pleasantly  as  did  the 
others  in  the  office,  with  one  exception. 
Over  in  a  window  sat  fireman  George 
[26] 


CHAPTER  III 


Cowels,  a  great  striker,  and  in  the  eyes  of 

some  of  his  enthusiastic  friends  a  great  man, 

and  in  his  own  estimation  a  great  orator. 

Removing  his   cigar   in  order  to  give  the 

proper    effect    to    the    expression    he   was 

about  to  assume,  Cowels  gave  Patsy  a  hard 

searching  look  as  he  asked  : 

"Does  that  song  of  yours  mean  yourself 

and  the  general  manager?" 

"An'  if  it  does,"  said  Patsy,  stepping  close 

in  front  of  his  questioner:   "What's  it  to 

you?" 

"Just  this,"  said  Cowels:  "You  have  been 
watched.  You  went  to  the  general  office 
this  morning  the  moment  it  was  open,  and 
took  a  message  for  Mr.  Stonaker  to  the 
general  manager  of  the  C.  &  N.  W.  Does 
that  fit  your  case  ?  Perhaps  you  will  favor  us 
with  the  result  of  your  mission  !  Come,  will 
the  North  Western  help  your  friend  out  ?" 
At  the  conclusion  of  this  eloquent  burst  of 
indignation  Cowels  smiled  triumphantly, 
for,  as  Patsy  paled  into  silence,  the  big  fel- 
[  27  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


low  thought  he  had  his  man  scared  ;  but 
when  Patsy  took  another  step  forward, 
forcing  his  opponent  back  to  the  window, 
and  asked  between  his  closed  teeth,  if 
Cowels  meant  to  accuse  him  of  betraying 
the  strikers  to  the  company  every  one  in 
the  room  realized  that  something  was  about 
to  happen.  Perhaps  Cowels  thought  so,  too, 
but  he  was  in  a  hole  and  could  only  answer 
Yes.  The  next  instant  Patsy  drove  his  fist 
up  under  the  orator's  chin,  and  the  back 
of  that  gentleman's  head  made  a  hole  in 
the  window.  The  bystanders,  knowing  the 
temper  of  both  the  men,  sprang  between 
them  before  any  further  damage  could  be 
done. 

If  Patsy  had  the  best  of  the  fight  he  had 
the  worst  of  the  argument.  He  had  been 
openly  accused  of  being  a  "spotter"  and 
had  made  no  explanation  of  his  conduct; 
so  when  it  was  reported  that  he  had  gone 
to  Council  Bluffs  over  the  North  Western, 
the  more  ignorant  and  noisy  of  his  associ- 
[28] 


CHAPTER   III 


ates  were  easily  persuaded  that  such  a  favor 
to  a  striker  could  only  be  secured  upon  the 
request  of  Mr.  Stonaker  and  that  request 
would  be  given  only  for  services  rendered  ; 
and  Patsy  Daly  was  from  that  day  doomed 
to  walk  under  a  cloud. 

The  long  struggle  was  beginning  to  tell  on 
the  strikers.  It  was  evidenced  in  the  shiny 
suits  worn  by  the  men  who  met  daily  at 
the  hall  in  town  to  discuss  the  strike.  It 
was  seen  again  in  the  worn  wraps  of  many 
a  mother  and  in  the  torn  shoes  of  school 
children.  These  were  only  the  outer  signs, 
the  real  suffering  was  carefully  covered  up 
—  hidden  in  the  homes  where  home  comfort 
had  become  a  reminiscence.  The  battle  at 
first  had  been  with  the  strong  but  now  the 
brunt  of  it  was  being  shifted  to  the  shoul 
ders  of  the  women,  the  wives  and  mothers  of 
the  strikers.  These  patient  martyrs,  whose 
business  it  had  been  to  look  after  the  home, 
now  suffered  the  humiliation  of  having  door 
[29] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


after  door  closed  to  them  and  their  children. 
Of  a  morning  you  might  see  them  tramping 
through  the  snow  from  shop  to  shop  trying 
to  secure  credit  for  the  day.  The  strike 
would  be  over  in  a  little  while,  they  argued, 
but  the  struggling  shop-keeper  had  his  own 
to  look  after.  The  wholesale  houses  were  re 
fusing  him  credit  and  so  he  was  powerless 
to  help  the  hungry  wives  of  worthy  work 
men.  The  men  themselves  were  beginning 
to  lose  heart.  Many  a  man  who  had  not 
known  what  it  was  to  be  without  a  dollar 
now  saw  those  dearest  to  him  in  actual 
want  and  went  away  to  look  for  work  on 
other  roads.  Finally,  a  monster  union  meet 
ing  was  called  for  the  purpose  of  getting  an 
expression  of  opinion  as  to  the  advisability 
of  making  the  best  possible  terms  with  the 
company  and  calling  the  strike  off.  Here 
the  engine-men,  trainmen  and  switchmen 
met,  but  the  radical  element  was  in  the 
majority,  and  the  suggestions  of  the  heads 
of  the  various  Brotherhoods  that  the  strike 
[30] 


CHAPTER   III 


be  called  off  were  howled  down  by  the  un- 
terrified.  It  was  at  this  meeting  that  a  tall, 
powerful,  but  mild  mannered  man,  stood  up 
in  the  face  of  all  the  opposing  elements  and 
advised  that  the  strike  be  ended  at  once. 
He  did  not  suggest  this  from  a  selfish  mo 
tive,  he  said.  He  was  a  single  man  and  had 
money  enough  to  keep  himself  in  idleness 
for  a  year,  but  there  were  hundreds  of  fami 
lies  who  were  in  want,  and  it  was  for  these 
he  was  pleading.  The  speaker  was  inter 
rupted  repeatedly,  but  he  kept  his  place 
and  continued  to  talk  until  the  mob  be 
came  silent  and  listened  out  of  mere  curi 
osity.  "  You  can  never  .  hold  an  army  of 
hungry  men  together,"  said  the  speaker  ; 
"you  can't  fight  gold  with  a  famine.  The 
company,  we  are  told,  has  already  lost  a 
million  dollars.  What  of  it  ?  You  forget  that 
it  has  been  making  millions  annually  for 
the  past  ten  years.  What  have  we  been  mak 
ing  ?  Lots  of  money,  I  '11  admit,  but  none  of 
it  has  been  saved.  The  company  is  rich,  the 
[81  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


brotherhoods  are  bankrupt.  From  the  re 
motest  corners  of  the  country  comes  the  cry 
of  men  weary  of  paying  assessments  to  sup 
port  us  in  idleness.  To-day  some  sort  of  set 
tlement  might  be  made  —  to-morrow  it  may 
be  too  late." 

At  this  juncture  the  mob  howled  the 
speaker  down  again.  Men  climbed  over 
benches  to  get  at  the  "traitor."  A  man  who 
had  been  persuaded  to  leave  the  company, 
and  who  had  been  taken  into  the  order  only 
the  day  before,  tried  to  strike  the  engineer 
in  the  face.  In  the  midst  of  the  excitement, 
George  Cowels  of  the  Fireman's  Brother 
hood  leaped  upon  the  platform  and  at  sight 
of  him  and  the  sound  of  his  powerful  voice 
the  rioters  became  quiet. 
"  I  think,"  he  began  slowly  to  show  how 
easy  it  was  for  a  truly  great  leader  to  keep 
cool  in  the  hottest  of  the  fight,  "  I  think  I 
can  explain  the  action  of  the  last  speaker." 
Here  he  paused  and  looked  down  into  the 
frank  face  of  Dan  Moran  and  continued  : 
[32] 


CHAPTER  III 


"  Mr.  Moran,  as  many  of  you  know,  has  one 
of  the  best  runs  on  the  road.  He  has  had  it 
for  a  good  many  years  and  he  loathes  to 
leave  it.  By  denying  himself  the  luxury  of 
a  cigar  and  never  taking  a  drink  he  has 
managed  to  save  up  some  money.  He  is  a 
money-getter  —  a  money-saver  and  it  hurts 
him  to  be  idle.  I  have  been  firing  for  him 
for  five  years  and  in  all  that  time  he  has 
never  been  the  man  to  say  :  '  Come,  George, 
let  's  have  a  drink  or  a  cigar.'  Now  I  propose 
that  we  chip  in  and  pay  Mr.  Dan  Moran  his 
little  four  dollars  a  day.  Let  us  fight  this 
fight  to  a  finish.  Let  there  be  no  retreat 
until  the  proud  banner  of  our  Brotherhood 
waves  above  the  blackened  ruins  of  the 
once  powerful  Burlington  route.  Down 
with  all  traitors  :  on  with  the  fight." 
At  the  conclusion  of  this  speech  the  audi 
ence  went  wild.  When  order  had  been  par 
tially  restored  a  vote  was  taken,  when  it  was 
shown  that  seven-eighths  of  the  men  were 
in  favor  of  continuing  the  strike. 
[33] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


The  engineers  had  really  been  spoiled  by 
success.  At  the  last  annual  convention  they 
had  voted  to  exterminate  the  classification 
system,  and  had  passed  a  law  making  it 
impossible  for  the  head  of  the  organiza 
tion  to  make  any  settlement  that  included  a 
continuation  of  classification.  The  scalps  of 
the  Atchison,  the  Alton,  the  LouisvUle  and 
Nashville,  and  a  number  of  other  strong 
companies  dangled  at  the  belt  of  the  big 
chief  of  the  Engineers'  Brotherhood.  These 
were  all  won  by  diplomacy,  but  the  men 
did  not  know  it.  They  believed  that  the 
show  of  strength  had  awed  the  railway 
officials  of  the  country  and  that  the  railway 
labor  organizations  were  invincible.  A  little 
easing  off  by  the  Brotherhood,  and  a  little 
forbearance  on  the  part  of  the  management 
might,  at  the  start,  have  averted  the  great 
struggle  ;  but  when  once  war  had  been  de 
clared  the  generals  on  both  sides  had  no 
choice  but  to  fight  it  out  to  a  finish. 

[34] 


CHAPTER   FOURTH 

V-^AN  you  spare  me  a  little  money, 
George?"  asked  Mrs.  Cowels,  adjusting  her 
last  year's  coat. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  money  ? " 
"Well — it's  Christmas  eve,  and  I  thought 
we  ought  to  have  something  for  Bennie.  He 
has  been  asking  me  all  evening  what  I  ex 
pected  from  Santa  Claus,  never  hinting,  of 
course,  that  he  expected  anything." 
"Well,  here 's  a  dollar." 
Mrs.  Cowels  took  the  money  and  went  over 
to  the  little  store. 

There  were  so  many  things  to  choose  from 
that  she  found  it  difficult  to  make  a  selec 
tion.  Finally  she  paid  a  quarter  for  a  tin 
whistle  and  two  bunches  of  noise — that  was 
for  the  boy.  With  the  remaining  seventy- 
five  cents  she  bought  a  pair  of  gloves  for 
her  husband. 

"  Anybody  been  here  to-day  ? "  asked 
Cowels  of  his  wife  when  she  came  back 
from  the  store. 

[35] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"Yes,  Mr.  Squeesum,  secretary  of  the  Be 
nevolent  Building  Association,  was  here  to 
see  you  about  the  last  two  payments  which 
are  over-due,  on  the  house." 
"  What  did  you  tell  him  ?" 
"  I  told  him  that  we  had  no  money." 
"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  that  was  very  strange,  as  the 
Brotherhoods  were  pouring  thousands  of 
dollars  into  Chicago  to  aid  the  strikers. 
What  becomes  of  all  this  money,  George  ? 
You  never  seem  to  get  any  of  it." 
"We  pour  it  out  again,"  said  Cowels,  "to 
the  army  of  engine-men  who  are  coming 
here  from  the  Reading  and  everywhere  to 
take  our  places.  We  hire  them  —  buy  them 
off  —  bribe  them,  to  prevent  them  from  tak 
ing  service  with  the  company,  and  yet  it 
seems  there  is  no  end  to  the  supply.  For 
every  man  we  secure  the  company  brings  a 
score,  and  we  are  losing  ground.  Members 
of  the  Brotherhood  everywhere  are  growing 
weary  of  the  long  struggle.  They  have  good 
[36  ] 


CHAPTER   IV 


jobs  and  object  to  paying  from  six  to  twelve 
dollars  a  month  to  support  the  strikers. 
Some  have  even  refused  to  pay  assessments 
and  have  surrendered  their  charters.  Any 
body  else  here  ? " 

"Yes,  a  man  named  Hawkins.  He  wanted 
room  and  board." 
"  What  did  you  teU  him  ? " 
"  I  told  him  we  had  never  kept  roomers  or 
boarders,  but  he  said  he  liked  the  place — 
for  me  to  speak  to  you,  and  he  would  call 
again." 

"  Huh !  he  must  like  the  place.  Well,  I 
guess  we  can  get  along  some  way,"  said 
Cowels,  and  then  he  sat  and  looked  into  the 
fire  for  a  while  without  saying  anything. 
When  Mrs.  Cowels  had  put  the  baby  down 
she  came  and  sat  near  her  husband  and 
they  began  to  discuss  the  future.  They  had 
bought  their  little  home  a  year  and  a  half 
ago  for  twelve  hundred  doUars.  They  had 
lived  economically  and  had  been  able  to  re 
duce  the  debt  to  six  hundred  dollars.  But 
[37] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


when  the  strike  came  they  were  unable  to 
keep  up  the  payments  and  now  the  associa 
tion  had  begun  to  push  them.  If  they  did 
not  pay  within  the  next  thirty  days  the  real 
estate  company  with  the  soft  sounding  title 
would  foreclose  the  mortgage.  When  they 
had  talked  this  all  over,  Mrs.  Cowels  pro 
posed  that  they  take  the  stranger  in,  but  her 
husband  objected.  "I  didn't  want  to  tell 
you,  George,"  said  the  brave  little  woman, 
"but  there  was  another  caller.  The  grocer 
and  butcher  was  here  this  morning  and  we 
can  get  no  more  meat  or  groceries  until  we 
pay.  He  is  a  poor  man,  you  know,  and  he 
can't  keep  up  the  families  of  all  the  strik 
ers.  I  didn't  want  to  worry  you  with  this, 
George,  but  since  you  are  opposed  to  me 
helping  by  taking  a  lodger  I  will  tell  you 
that  something  must  be  done." 
Cowels  lighted  a  fresh  cigar.  That  was  the 
third  one  since  supper.  They  cost  all  the 
way  from  two  to  five  cents  apiece,  but 
Mrs.  Cowels  knew  that  he  was  worried 
[38] 


CHAPTER   IV 


about  lodge  matters  and  if  she  thought 
anything  about  it  at  all,  she  probably  rea 
soned  that  it  was  a  good  thing  to  be  able 
to  smoke  and  forget. 

"  I  made  the  speech  of  my  life  to-day,"  said 
the  striker,  brushing  the  ashes  lightly  from 
his  cigar.  "The  hall  was  packed  and  the 
fellows  stood  up  on  their  chairs  and  yelled. 
One  fellow  shouted,  'Three  cheers  for  the 
next  Grand  Master,'  and  the  gang  threw  up 
their  hats  and  hollered  till  I  thought  they  'd 
gone  wild.  Nora,  if  there  was  a  convention 
to-morrow  I  'd  win,  hands  down." 
Mrs.  Cowels  smiled  faintly,  for  to  her  way 
of  thinking  there  were  other  things  as  im 
portant  as  her  husband's  election  to  the 
position  of  Grand  Master  of  the  Brother 
hood  of  Locomotive  Firemen,  and  she 
changed  the  subject.  Presently  the  door 
bell  sounded,  so  loud  and  piercing  that  the 
sound  of  it  waked  the  baby.  The  man  who 
had  pulled  the  bell  knew  at  once  that  he 
had  made  no  mistake.  He  had  noticed  when 
[39] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


he  called  that  morning  that  the  bell  upon 
the  door  had  once  done  service  in  the  cab 
of  a  locomotive,  and  had  made  a  note  of 
the  fact.  While  Mrs.  Cowels  hushed  the 
baby  her  husband  answered  the  bell  and 
when  Mr.  Hawkins  gave  his  name  and 
made  his  wants  known,  Cowels  told  him 
shortly  that  they  did  not  keep  lodgers.  He 
knew  that,  he  said,  and  that  was  one  of  the 
reasons  why  he  was  so  anxious  to  come,  but 
Cowels,  who  liked  to  show  his  authority  at 
all  times,  shut  the  door,  and  the  stranger 
was  not  taken  in. 

That  night  when  the  orator  was  dreaming 
that  he  had  been  chosen  Grand  Master  of 
the  Brotherhood,  his  wife  stole  out  of  the 
room  and  put  the  things  in  Bennie's  sock, 
and  then,  just  to  please  Bennie,  she  put  a 
rubber  rattle  in  the  baby's  little  stocking. 
Her  husband,  being  a  great  thinker,  would 
not  consent  to  having  his  hosiery  hung  up, 
so  she  would  wait  till  breakfast  time  and 
hide  the  gloves  under  his  plate.  Then  she 
[  40  ] 


CHAPTER   IV 


went  over  to  tuck  the  cover  in  around 
Bennie.  He  was  smiling — dreaming,  doubt 
less,  of  red  sleds  and  firecrackers — and  his 
mother  smiled,  too,  and  kissed  him  and 
went  back  to  bed. 


[  41  ] 


CHAPTER   FIFTH 

AT  was  a  rough,  raw,  Chicago  day.  The 
snow  came  in  spurts,  cold  and  cutting  from 
the  north  and  the  scantily  dressed  strikers 
were  obliged  to  dance  about  and  beat  their 
hands  to  keep  warm.  Special  mounted 
police  were  riding  up  and  down  the  streets 
that  paralleled  the  Burlington  tracks,  and 
ugly  looking  armed  deputies  were  every 
where  in  evidence.  The  forced  quiet  that 
pervaded  the  opposing  armies  served  only 
to  increase  the  anxiety  of  the  observing. 
Every  man  who  had  any  direct  interest  in 
the  contest  seemed  to  have  a  chip  on  his 
shoulder. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  strike  was  to  be  ex 
tended  to  all  connecting  lines,  the  switching 
yards  and  stock  yards.  When  the  hour  ar 
rived  the  switchmen  threw  up  their  caps 
and  quit.  Now  the  different  companies 
made  an  effort  to  replace  the  strikers  and 
trouble  commenced.  The  deputies,  who  had 
been  aching  to  get  a  whack  at  the  strikers 
[42] 


CHAPTER  V 


for  countless  cursings  which  they  had  re 
ceived,  now  used  their  guns  unmercifully 
upon  the  unprotected  heads  of  the  men, 
and  the  police,  who  disliked  and  refused  to 
associate  with  the  deputies,  used  their  clubs 
upon  all  who  resisted  them.  By  eleven 
o'clock  the  whole  city  was  in  a  state  of  riot 
and  men  bruised  and  bleeding  were  loaded 
into  wagons  and  hurried  away  until  the 
jails  were  filled  with  criminals,  bums,  depu 
ties  and  strikers.  The  police  courts  were 
constantly  grinding  out  justice,  or  decisions 
intended  to  take  the  place  of  justice. 
Mothers  were  often  seen  begging  the 
magistrates  to  release  their  boys  and  wives 
praying  for  the  pardon  of  their  husbands. 
These  prayers  were  often  unanswered  and 
the  poor  women  were  forced  to  return  to  a 
lonely  home,  to  an  empty  cupboard  and  a 
cold  hearth. 

In  the  midst  of  the  rioting  on  this  wild  day 
came  Patsy  Daly  strolling  up  the  track 
singing  : 

[43] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 

"Always  together  in  sunshine  and  rain 
Facing  the  weather  atop  o"1  iK  train. 
Watching  the  meadows  move  under  the  stars 
Always  together  atop  o"1  th?  cars? 

"  Hello  !  there !  "  came  from  a  box  car. 
"  Hello  to  you,"  said  Patsy  as  he  turned  out 
to  see  what  the  fellow  was  in  for.  "  Now,  what 
the  divil  you  doin'  caged  up  in  this  car  ? " 
"  I  'm   hidin'   from   the   strikers,"   said   the 
man,  peeping  cautiously  out. 
"  Faith,  and  I  'm  one  of  them  myself,"  says 
Patsy,  "  and  I  suppose  you  're  after  takin' 
my  place,  ye  spalpeen;   I  have  a  right   to 
swat  your  face  for  you,  so  I  have." 
"  You  could  n't  do  it  if  I  was  opposed,"  said 
the  stranger  opening  the  door. 
"  Oh  !  could  n't  I  ?  then  let  yourself  drop  to 
the  ground  till  I  take  a  little  of  the  conceit 
out  of  you." 

"  No,  I  won't  fight  you,"  said  the  man,  "  I 
like  your  face  and  I  want  you  to  help  me 
out." 

"  And  I  like  your  nerve ;  now,  what 's  your 
[  44  ] 


CHAPTER  V 


pleasure  ?  Have  you  been  working  in  this 
strike  ? " 

"  I  started  to  work  this  morning  only  to  get 
something  to  eat  on." 
"  Are  you  a  railroad  man  ? " 
"  I  'm  a  switchman.  I  was  foreman  in  the 
yards  at  Buffalo,  had  a  scrap  with  the  yard- 
master  who  had  boasted  that  he  would  not 
have  a  switchman  he  could  n't  curse,  an'  got 
fired." 

"  Did  you  lick  him  ? " 
"Yes." 

"  Good  and  plenty  ? " 
"Yes." 

"  Go  on  with  your  story." 
"  Well,"  said  the  man,  seating  himself  in  the 
door  of  the  car,  "  I  started  out  to  get  work 
— had  my  card  from  the  Union  and  felt 
sure  of  success.  I  had  only  been  married  a 
year,  but  of  course  I  had  to  leave  my  wife 
in  Buffalo  until  I  got  located.  When  I  ap 
plied  for  work  I  was  asked  for  references 
and  I  had  none.  I  told  them  where  I  had 
[45  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


worked  ;  they  asked  me  to  call  later,  and  I 
called,  only  to  learn  that  they  didn't  need 
any  more  men.  This  performance  was  re 
peated  in  every  town  I  struck,  until  I  began 
to  believe  that  I  had  been  blacklisted.  In 
time  my  money  gave  out.  I  wrote  to  my 
wife  and  she  sent  me  money.  When  that 
was  gone  I  sent  for  more,  not  stopping  to 
think  that  she  had  to  eat,  too,  and  that  I 
had  given  her  but  ten  dollars  when  I  left 
home  ;  but  she  sent  me  money. 
Then  there  came  a  time  when  she  could  not 
send  me  anything  ;  I  could  not  keep  up  my 
dues  in  the  Union,  so  was  expelled.  After 
that  I  found  it  hard  to  get  passes.  Lots  of 
times  I  had  to  steal  them,  and  finally  —  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  —  I  stole  something 
to  eat.  Say,  pardner,  did  you  ever  get  so 
hungry  that  the  hunger  cramped  you  like 
cholera  morbus  ?  " 
"No." 

"Then    I    reckon   you've    never   stole,   or 
what  's  worse,  scabbed  ?  " 
[46] 


CHAPTER  V 


"No." 

"Well — I  Ve  done  both,  though  this  is  the 
first  time  I  Ve  scabbed.  As  I  was  sayin'  I 
got  down  so  low  that  I  had  to  steal,  and 
then  I  thought  of  my  wife,  of  how  terrible 
it  would  be  if  she  should  have  to  steal,  or 
maybe  worse,  and  the  thought  of  it  drove 
me  almost  crazy.  She  was  a  pretty  girl  when 
I  married  her,  an  orphan  only  eighteen  and 
I  was  twenty-eight.  I  determined  to  go 
home  at  once,  but  before  I  could  get  out 
of  town  I  was  arrested  as  a  vag  and  sent 
up  for  sixty  days.  I  thought  at  that  time 
that  my  punishment  was  great, — that  the 
mental  and  physical  suffering  that  I  en 
dured  in  the  workhouse  was  all  that  I  could 
stand, — but  I  Ve  seen  it  beaten  since.  At 
last  they  told  me  that  I  could  go,  but  that 
I  would  be  expected  to  shake  the  city  of 
Chicago  before  the  sun  rose  on  the  follow 
ing  day,  and  I  did.  I  hung  myself  up  on  the 
trucks  of  a  Pullman  on  the  Lake  Shore  Lim 
ited  and  landed  in  Buffalo  just  before  dawn. 
[47]  ' 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


As  I  hurried  along  the  old  familiar  streets  I 
noticed  a  crowd  of  people  standing  by  a  nar 
row  canal  and  stopped  to  see  what  the  ex 
citement  was.  I  saw  them  fish  the  limp  and 
lifeless  form  of  a  woman  out  of  the  muddy 
water  and  when  the  moonlight  fell  upon  her 
face  it  startled  me,  for  it  was  so  like  her 
face.  A  moment  later  I  got  near  enough  to 
see  that  the  victim  was  a  blonde,  and  my 
wife  was  brunette.  Presently  I  came  to  the 
house  where  we  had  lived,  but  it  was  closed 
and  dark.  I  aroused  a  number  of  the  neigh 
bors,  but  none  of  them  knew  where  the 
little  woman  had  gone. 
"  '  Shure,'  said  an  old  woman  who  was  ped 
dling  milk,  '  I  don't  know  phere  she  's  at  at 
all,  at  all.  That  big  good-fur-nothin'  man  o' 
hern  has  gone  along  and  deserted  of  her  an' 
broke  the  darlint's  heart,  so  'e  'as  an'  the  end 
uv  it  all  will  be  that  she  '11  be  afther  drownin' 
'erself  in  the  canal  beyant  wan  uv  these  foine 
nights.' 

"All  through  the  morning  I  searched  the 
[48] 


CHAPTER  V 


place  for  her,  but  not  a  trace  could  I  find. 
It  seemed  that  she  had  dropped  out  of  the 
world,  utterly,  and  that  no  one  had  missed 
her.  Finally  I  was  so  hungry  that  I  begged 
a  bite  to  eat  and  went  down  by  the  canal 
and  fell  asleep.  Here  a  strange  thing  hap 
pened.  I  had  a  dreadful  dream.  I  dreamed 
that  I  saw  my  wife  being  dragged  from  the 
dark  waters  of  the  canal.  She  had  the  same 
sad,  sweet  face,  but  not  the  same  hair.  I 
awoke  in  a  cold  sweat.  I  was  now  seized 
with  an  irresistible  longing  to  look  once 
more  upon  the  face  of  the  dead  woman 
whom  I  had  seen  them  fish  from  the  foul 
waters  that  morning,  and  I  set  out  for  the 
morgue.  I  entered  unnoticed  and  there  lay 
the  dead  woman  with  her  white  hands 
folded  upon  her  dead  breast.  She  had  the 
same  sad,  sweet  face,  but  not  the  same  hair, 
but  it  was  she — it  was  my  wife." 
The  vag  let  his  head  fall  so  that  his  eyes 
rested  upon  the  ground.  Patsy  fished  some 
thing  from  his  vest  and  holding  it  out  to 
[49  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the   man,   said  :    "  Here  's   a  one-dollar  bill 
and  a  three-dollar  meal  ticket  —  which  will 
you  have  ?  " 
"  Gi'  me  the  pie-card." 
"  Which  shows  you  're  not  a  regular  bum," 
said  Patsy. 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  eyeing  the  meal  ticket 
with  its  twenty-one  unpunched  holes.  "I 
never  cared  for  liquor,  only  once  in  a  while 
when  a  bum  makes  a  lift  I  take  a  nip  just 
to  stop  the  awful  gnawing,  cramping  pain  of 
hunger,  but  it  only  makes  you  feel  worse 
afterwards.  But  it's  interesting,"  said  the 
tramp,  thoughtfully.  "-If  it  were  not  for 
the  hunger  and  cold  this  new  life  that  I 
have  dropped  into  wouldn't  be  half  bad. 
-  You  get  a  closer  glimpse  of  the  miseries  of 
mankind  and  a  better  notion  of  the  causes 
that  bring  it  ah1  about.  It  educates  you.  Now 
take  this  fight  for  instance.  You  fellows  feel 
sure  of  success,  but  I  know  better.  Only 
two  men  of  ah1  the  vast  army  of  strikers 
have  deserted  so  far,  but  wait.  Wait  till  the 
[50] 


CHAPTER  V 


pain  of  hunger  hits  you  and  doubles  you  up 
like  a  jack-knife,  and  it 's  sure  to  come.  Be 
hind  the  management  there  are  merciless 
millions  of  money :  behind  the  strikers  the 
gaunt  wolf  of  hunger  stalks  in  the  snow. 
Can  you  beat  a  game  like  that  ?  Never.  And 
after  all  what  right  have  you  and  your  peo 
ple  to  expect  mercy  at  the  hands  of  organ 
ized  capital  ?  Does  the  Union  show  mercy 
to  men  like  me  ?  To  escape  the  blight  of  the 
black-list  I  changed  my  name.  Three  times 
I  found  work,  but  in  each  instance  the  com 
pany  were  forced  to  discharge  me  or  have  a 
strike.  I  was  not  a  Union  man  and  so  had 
to  steal  a  ride  out  of  town.  Once  I  asked  a 
farmer  for  work  and  he  set  me  to  digging 
post  holes  and  every  time  a  man  came  by  I 
hid  myself  in  the  grass.  'What  you  hidin' 
fur?'  the  farmer  asked.  Then  I  told  him 
that  I  did  n't  belong  to  the  Union. 
" '  What  Union  ? '  says  he. 
"  *  The  post-hole  Union  '  says  I — 'in  fact,  I 
don't  belong  to  any  Union.' 
[51  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  *  They  ain't  no  post-hole  Union,'  says  the 
farmer  indignantly,  '  an'  you  know  it.  What 
you  're  givin'  me  is  hog-  wash  —  you  Ve  been 
stealin'.  Here  's  a  quarter  fur  what  you  Ve 
done  —  now  git.' 

"I  tried  to  reason  with  him,  but  he  only 
shook  his  thick  head  and  began  whistling 
for  his  dog,  and  I  got.  Yes,  pardner,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  tyranny  of  organized 
capital  and  the  tyranny  of  organized  labor 
are  close  competitors,  and  in  their  wake 
come  the  twin  curses  —  the  black-list  and 
the  boycot.  Hand  in  hand  they  go,  like  red 
liquor  and  crime.  But  you  can't  right  these 
wrongs  the  way  you're  headed  now,"  said 
the  philosopher.  "  Everything  is  against  you. 
Wealth  works  wonders.  The  press,  the  tele 
phone  through  which  the  public  talks  back 
to  itself,  is  hoarse  with  the  repetition  of  the 
story  of  your  wrong-doings.  Until  the  Gov 
ernment  puts  a  limit  to  the  abuses  of  trusts 
and  monopolies,  and  organized  labor  has 
learned  that  there  are  other  interests  which 
[52] 


CHAPTER  V 


have  rights  under  the  Constitution,  there 
will  be  no  peace  on  earth,  no  good  will  to 
ward  man.  When  the  trusts  are  controlled, 
and  labor  submits  its  grievances  to  an  im 
partial,  unbiased  board  of  arbitration,  then 
there  will  be  peace  and  plenty.  The  wages 
that  you  are  now  losing  and  the  money 
squandered  by  vulgar  and  ignorant  leaders, 
will  then  be  used  in  building  up  and  beauti 
fying  homes.  The  time  thrown  away  in  use 
less  agitation  and  in  idleness  will  be  spent 
for  the  intellectual  advancement  of  working 
men,  and  the  millions  of  money  lost  in 
wrecked  railroads  will  find  its  way  to  the 
pockets  of  honest  investors." 
While  this  lecture,  which  interested  Patsy, 
was  being  delivered  the  two  men  had  be 
come  oblivious  of  their  surroundings,  but 
now  the  wild  cry  of  a  mob  in  a  neighbor 
ing  street,  the  rattle  of  sticks  and  stones 
and  the  occasional  bark  of  a  six-shooter 
brought  them  back  to  the  business  before 
them. 

[53] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Wave  after  wave  the  rioters  rolled  against 
the  little  band  of  officers,  but  like  billows 
that  break  upon  a  stony  shore  they  were 
forced  to  roll  back  again.  Like  the  naked 
minions  of  Montezuma,  who  hurled  them 
selves  against  the  armored  army  of  the 
Spaniards,  the  strikers  and  their  abetters 
were  invariably  beaten  back  with  bruised 
heads  and  broken  bones.  If  a  luckless  striker 
fell  he  was  trampled  upon  by  the  horses  of 
the  mounted  police  or  kicked  into  uncon 
sciousness  by  the  desperate  deputies. 
"  Can  you  get  me  out  of  this  so  I  can  have 
a  go  at  this  pie-card  ?  "  asked  the  man. 
"Yas,"  said  Patsy,  leaping  into  the  car. 
"  Skin  off  your  coat." 

When  the  two  men  had  exchanged  coats 
and  caps  the  vag  strolled  leisurely  down  the 
track  and  in  a  little  while  Patsy  followed. 
He  had  not  gone  three  cars  before  the  mob 
saw  him  and  with  the  cry  of  "  The  scab  !  the 
scab  !  "  sent  a  shower  of  sticks  and  stones 
after  the  flying  brakeman.  A  rock  struck 
[  54  ] 


CHAPTER  V 


Patsy  on  the  head  and  he  fell  to  the 
ground.  The  cap,  which  he  had  worn  well 
over  his  eyes,  fell  off,  and  he  was  recognized 
by  one  of  the  strikers  before  his  ribs  could 
be  kicked  in.  "Begad,"  said  the  leader  of  the 
mob,  "it's  the  singin'  brakeman.  Th'  bum 
have  robbed  'im  uv  'es  clothes  an'  giv'  us 
the  slip,"  and  they  picked  Patsy  up  and 
carried  him  away  to  the  hospital. 


[55] 


CHAPTER    SIXTH 

Jl  HREE  kinds  of  meetings  were  held  by  the 
strikers.  Public  meetings,  open  to  every 
body,  union  meetings,  open  to  any  member 
of  the  several  organizations  engaged  in  the 
strike,  and  secret  sessions  held  by  the  vari 
ous  Brotherhoods,  to  which  only  members  of 
that  particular  order  were  admitted. 
Many  things  were  said  and  done  at  these 
secret  sessions  that  were  never  printed,  or 
even  mentioned  outside  the  lodge-room, 
save  when  a  detective  happened  to  be  a 
member,  or  when  a  member  happened  to  be 
a  detective. 

At  one  of  these  meetings,  held  by  the  strik 
ing  firemen,  the  head  of  that  organization 
startled  the  audience  with  the  declaration 
that  the  strike  was  going  to  end  disas 
trously  for  the  strikers.  In  fact,  he  said,  the 
strike  was  already  lost.  They  were  beaten. 
The  only  point  to  be  determined  was  as  to 
the  extent  of  the  thrashing.  This  red  rag, 
flung  in  the  faces  of  the  "war  faction," 
[56] 


CHAPTER  VI 


called  forth  hisses  and  hoots  from  the  no- 
surrender  element.  A  number  of  men  were 
on  their  feet  instantly,  but  none  with  the 
eloquence,  or  even  the  lung  power  to  shut 
the  chief  off.  Many  of  the  outraged  mem 
bers  glanced  over  at  Cowels,  who  always  sat 
near  the  little  platform  at  the  end  of  the 
haU  in  order  that  he  might  not  keep  his 
admirers  waiting  when  they  called  for  a 
speech.  The  greatest  confusion  prevailed 
during  the  address  of  the  head  of  the  house. 
Cowels,  the  recognized  leader  of  the  war 
party,  sat  silently  in  his  place,  though  fre 
quently  called  upon  to  defend  the  fighters. 
As  their  chief  went  on  telling  them  of  the 
inevitable  ruin  that  awaited  the  strikers,  the 
more  noisy  began  to  accuse  him  of  selling 
them  out.  One  man  wanted  to  know  what 
he  got  for  the  job,  but  the  master,  feeling 
secure  in  that  he  was  doing  his  duty,  gave 
no  heed  to  what  his  traducers  were  saying. 
Amid  all  the  turmoil  Cowels  sat  so  quietly 
that  some  of  the  more  suspicious  began  to 
[57] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


guess,  audibly,  that  he  was  "in  with  the 
play."  But  there  was  no  play,  and  if  there 
had  been  Cowels  would  not  have  been  in 
with  it.  Cowels  was  thinking.  Suddenly  he 
leaped  upon  his  chair  and  yelled  :  "  Throw 
'im  out  !"  He  did  not  use  the  finger  of  scorn 
upon  the  master,  or  even  look  in  his  direc 
tion.  He  merely  glared  at  the  audience  and 
commanded  it  to  "  Throw  'im  out  !" 
"  We  are  fighting  a  losing  fight,"  repeated 
the  chief,  "  and  you  who  fight  hardest  here 
will  be  first  to  fall,"  and  he  looked  at  Cowels 
as  he  spoke.  "  It  could  not  be  pleasant  to 
me,  even  with  your  respectful  attention,  to 
break  this   news   to  you.   I  do  it  because 
it  is  my  duty.  But  now,  having  said  what 
I  had  to  say,  let  me  assure  you  that  if  a 
majority  of  you  elect  to  continue  the  fight, 
I  will  lead  you,  and  I  promise  that  every 
man  of  you  shall  have  his  fill." 
This  last  declaration  was  rather  a  cooler  for 
Cowels.  It  took  a  vast  amount  of  wind  out 
of  his  sails,  but  he  was  on  his  feet  and  so 
[58] 


CHAPTER  VI 


had  to  make  a  speech.  He  was  not  very 
abusive,  but  managed  to  make  it  plain  that 
there  were  others  ready  and  able  to  lead  if 
their  leader  failed  to  do  his  duty.  When 
he  had  succeeded  in  getting  his  train  of 
thought  out  over  the  switches  his  hearers, 
especially  the  no-surrenderers,  began  to  en 
thuse.  His  speech  was  made  picturesque  by 
the  introduction  of  short  rhymes,  misquota 
tions  from  dead  poets,  and  tales  that  had 
never  been  told  in  type.  "  If,"  he  exclaimed 
dramatically,  "  to  use  a  Shakesperian  simile, 
the  galled  wench  be  jaded,  let  him  surrender 
his  sword  to  some  one  worthy  of  the  steel." 
The  orator  worked  the  Shakesperian  pedal 
so  hard  that  some  of  his  hearers  expressed  a 
desire  to  know  more  about  the  distinguished 
poet.  Finally,  when  he  became  too  deep  for 
them,  a  man  with  a  strong  clear  voice 
shouted  a  single  word — the  name  of  a  little 
animal  whose  departure  from  a  sinking  ship 
makes  sailors  seek  the  shore — and  Cowels 
closed  like  a  snuff-box. 

[39] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Now  the  casual  observer  would  say  of  the 
great  orator  :  he  has  money  ;  his  family  is 
not  in  want.  But  the  statement  would  have 
been  incorrect. 

The  Cowelses,  like  hundreds  of  other  fami 
lies,  were  without  money,  without  credit, 
and  would  shortly  be  without  food.  The  last 
money  they  had  received  from  the  Brother 
hood  had  gone  to  pay  the  interest  on  the 
money  due  the  Benevolent  Building  Asso 
ciation,  for  fuel,  and  to  pay  the  milkman 
who  was  bringing  milk  for  the  baby.  It 
would  be  forty  or  fifty  days  before  another 
assessment  could  be  made  and  the  money 
collected.  The  outlook  was  gloomy.  Mr. 
Hawkins  had  called  again  and  offered  ten 
dollars  a  month  for  the  little  spare  room  on 
the  second  floor,  but  Cowels  would  not  con 
sent. 

But  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was 
making  this  speech  his  wife  was  returning 
empty-handed  from  the  bakery.  Bennie  had 
been  watching,  waiting  at  the  window  for 
[60] 


CHAPTER  VI 


her,  and  when  she  saw  him  staring  at  her, 
saw  the  tears  come  into  his  innocent  eyes, 
she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  wept  as  she 
had  not  wept  before.  They  had  breakfasted 
on  bread  and  water.  It  was  now  past  noon 
and  they  were  all  hungry.  She  gave  Bennie 
some  of  the  baby's  milk,  and  then  sat  down 
to  think.  The  door-bell  rung.  "  I  was  just 
passing  by,"  said  Mr.  Hawkins,  "and  thought 
I  'd  stop  and  see  if  there  was  any  show  to 
get  that  room.  I  work  for  the  plumber  hi 
the  next  block,  so  you  see  it  would  be  handy 
for  me." 

"  Would  you  pay  in  advance  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Cowels. 

"  I  should  n't  mind,"  said  the  plumber,  "  if 
it  would  be  of  any  advantage  to  you." 
"  Then  you  can  have  the  room." 
"  Very  well,"  said  the  man,  apparently  de 
lighted  with  his  bargain,  and  he  gave  her  a 
crisp  ten-dollar  note.  He  also  gave  Bennie  a 
big,  red  apple,  and  looked  surprised  when  the 
boy  began  to  bite  great  chunks  out  of  it. 
[61  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


That  evening  when  Cowels  came  home  he 
found  the  house  filled  with  the  fumes  of 
boiled  beef,  and  it  put  him  in  a  good 
humor  at  once.  He  was  hungry,  having  had 
nothing  all  day  but  a  glass  of  beer  and  a 
free  lunch. 

"  They  's    a    man    up-stairs,"    said    Bennie, 
shoving  his  empty  plate  up  for  another  load 
of  boiled  beef.  Mrs.  Cowels  smiled  a  faint 
smile,  and  her  husband  asked  : 
"  Who  is  this  fellow  ?  " 
"  He  's  a  plumber,"  was  the  reply,  "  and  he 
seems  like  a  very  nice  man." 
"  Did  he  pay  a  month  in  advance  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  having  stran 
gers  in  the  house,"  said  Cowels,  "  and  I  wish 
you  had  not  taken  him  in." 
"  I  dislike  it  too,  George,"  said  Mrs.  Cowels, 
"but  the  baker  had  refused  me  a  loaf  of 
bread,  the  children  were  hungry  and  you 
might  as  well  know  now  that  I  can  never 
see  my  babies  suffer  for  want  of  food,  and 
[62] 


CHAPTER   VI 


you  need  not  be  surprised  at  anything  I 
may  do  to  supply  their  wants." 
Cowels  had  never  seen  his  wife  display  so 
much  spirit  and  it  surprised  him.  "  It 's  all 
very  well,"  she  went  on,  "to  prate  about 
honor  and  loyalty  to  the  Brotherhood,  but 
an  obligation  that  entails  the  suffering  of 
innocent  women  and  children  is  not  an  hon 
orable  obligation  and  ought  not  to  exist.  A 
man's  first  duty  is  to  his  family.  My  advice 
to  you  would  be  to  miss  a  few  meetings  and 
go  and  try  to  find  something  to  do.  Think 
how  we  have  denied  ourselves  in  order  to 
have  a  place  of  our  own,  and  now  it 's  all  to 
be  taken  from  us,  and  all  because  of  this 
senseless  and  profitless  strike." 
"  By  George,  she 's  a  cracker-jack  ! "  said 
Hawkins,  who  had  been  listening  down  the 
stove-pipe. 

Cowels  made  no  reply  to  his  wife,  but  he 
was  thinking.  In  fact,  he  had  been  thinking 
all  the  way  home.  He  had  been  interrupted 
twice  that  day  while  addressing  the  meet- 
[63] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


ing.  One  fellow  had  asked  who  the  devil 
Shakespeare  was,  and  if  he  had  ever  done 
anything  for  the  Union.  Another  man  had 
said  "  rats,"  and  the  orator  was  sore. 
Now,  when  he  had  thought  it  all  over,  he 
surprised  his  wife  as  much  as  she  had  sur 
prised  him.  "  They  're  all  a  lot  of  unliterate 
ingrates,"  said  Cowels,  "and  for  two  cents 
I  'd  shake  the  whole  show  and  go  to  work. 
If  they  turn  me  down  at  the  convention, 
and  this  strike  is  not  settled,  I  '11  take  an 
engine." 

Mr.  Hawkins  gave  a  low  whistle. 
"  No,  you  must  never  do  that,  George,  after 
all  you  Ve  said  against  such  things  ;  it  would 
not  do." 

"  Then  they  must  not  drive  me  to  it,"  said 
Cowels.  "  I  Ve  tried  to  show  them  the  way 
to  success,  even  to  lead  them,  and  they  have 
the  nerve  to  guy  me.  I  '11  fool  'em  yet  if 
they  trifle  with  me." 

"  That  's  what  I  thought  all  along,"  mused 

Hawkins.    "  It  was    not    the    Brotherhood 

[64  ] 


CHAPTER   VI 


that  Mr.  Cowels  was  working  so  hard  for, 
but  Mr.  Cowels.  Well,  he  will  be  just  as 
eager  to  succeed  in  another  direction  —  he 's 
ambitious." 


[65] 


CHAPTER   SEVENTH 

_LHE  great  strike,  like  a  receding  sea,  re 
vealed  heaps  of  queer  wreckage.  Men  who 
had  once  been  respected  by  then-  fellows, 
but  who  had  drifted  down  the  river  of  vice 
now  came  to  claim  the  attention  of  the 
strikers  or  the  company.  Most  conspicuous 
among  them  was  drunken  Bill  Greene. 
Three  months  ago  he  would  have  been 
kicked  out  of  a  company  section  house  or 
passed  by  a  Brotherhood  man  without  a 
nod.  Then  he  was  "Old  Bill;"  now  they 
called  him  Billy. 

In  his  palmy  days  he  had  wooed,  and  won 
the  heart  of  Maggie  Crogan,  a  pretty  wait 
ress  in  the  railway  eating-house  at  Zero 
Junction.  Maggie  was  barely  eighteen  then, 
a  strawberry  blonde  with  a  sunny  smile  and 
a  perpetual  blush.  In  less  than  a  year  he 
had  broken  her  heart,  wrecked  her  life  and 
sent  her  adrift  in  the  night.  His  only  excuse 
was  that  he  was  madly  in  love  with  Nora 
Kelly,  but  Nora,  having  heard  the  story  of 
[  06  ] 


CHAPTER  VII 


Maggie's  miserable  life,  turned  her  back  on 
Greene  and  married  George  Cowels,  then  a 
young  apprentice  hi  the  shops.  Inasmuch  as 
it  was  about  the  only  commendable  thing 
he  ever  did,  it  should  be  put  to  Greene's 
credit  that  he  did  really  love  Nora  Kelly; 
but,  being  a  coward  with  an  inherited  thirst, 
he  took  to  drink  the  day  she  turned  him 
down;  and  now,  after  a  few  wasted  years 
he  and  Maggie  —  old  red-headed  Mag  they 
called  her  —  had  drifted  together,  pooled 
their  sorrows  and  often  tried  to  drown  them 
in  the  same  can  of  beer.  She  worked,  when 
she  worked  at  all,  at  cleaning  coaches.  He 
borrowed  her  salary  and  bought  drink  with 
it.  Once  he  proposed  marriage,  and  ended 
by  beating  her  because  she  laughed  at  him. 
Before  the  strike  he  had  been  forced  to  keep 
sober  four  days  out  of  a  week.  Now  he  was 
comfortably  tanked  at  all  times.  He  had 
been  a  machinist  and  round-house  fore 
man,  and  the  company  saw  hi  him  a  fair 
"  emergency  "  engineer,  and  was  constantly 
[67] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


watching  for  an  opportunity  to  try  him  on 

one  of  the  fast  express  trains. 

At  last  he  was  called  to  take  out  a  passen 

ger  run.  The  round-house  foreman  had  gone 

personally  to  fetch  "Billy"  from  the  bar 

room  near  the  Grand  Pacific  where  he  was 

waiting  for  a  Brotherhood  man  to  drop  in 

and  buy  him  a  drink.  When  told  that  he 

was  wanted  to  take  out  the  Pacific  express, 

the  bum  straightened  up,  hitched  his  suspen- 

derless  trousers  and  asked  :  "  Who  're  you  ?  " 

"  I  'm  the  foreman  ;  come  and  have  a  bite  o' 

breakfast  and  let  's  be  off." 

"  Well  —  folks  gen'ly  drink  afore  they  eat  — 

come  on,  le  's  have  a  horn.  Here,  bar-keep, 

give  us  a  couple  o'  slugs." 

"  Got  any  dough  ?  " 

"  Now  don't  git  gay  —  I  'm  goin'  down  to 

take  me  run  out  —  here  's  me  foreman." 

"But  you  must  not  drink,"  broke  in  the 

official,  "  when  you  are  going  out  on  an  ex 

press  train." 

"What?" 

[68] 


CHAPTER  VII 


"  You  must  not  drink." 
"Then  I  don't  work.  Th'  Brotherhood  '11 
pay  me  four  dollars  a  day  to  sit  right  here 
and  keep  three  gages  an'  a  flutter  in  the 
stack  —  go  on  with  yer  damn  ol'  railroad  —  " 
"  Come  now,  Billy,"  pleaded  the  foreman, 
"  this  is  an  opportunity  —  " 
"  Billy  !  Month  ago  Stonaker's  nigger  threw 
me  down  the  steps." 

"  Give  'm  a  drink,"  said  the  foreman,  and 
the  bar-keeper  set  out  two  glasses  and  a 
large  red  bottle.  While  the  foreman's  back 
was  turned  and  the  bar-man  waited  upon 
another  customer,  Billy  did  the  honors.  He 
filled  both  glasses  and  had  emptied  one 
when  the  foreman,  having  unearthed  a 
quarter,  turned  and  remarked  to  the  liquor 
man  that  he  did  not  drink.  The  man  was 
in  the  act  of  removing  the  glass  when 
Billy  grabbed  it,  and  with  a  quick  crook 
of  his  elbow  pitched  the  whiskey  down  his 
neck. 

"  Now  will  you  go  and  eat  ?  " 
[69] 


«0§  SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  Naw  —  go  t'  work,"  said  Greene,  hitching 
up  his  trousers. 

Off  they  went  together,  but  at  every  saloon 
(and  there  are  dozens  of  them  in  Chicago), 
the  new  engineer  of  the  Pacific  express  in 
sisted  upon  drinking.  By  hard  coaxing  the 
foreman  had  succeeded  hi  passing  three  or 
four  of  them  when  they  were  met  by  a  cou 
ple  of  strikers. 

"  Hello  Billy,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "  Where 
you  goin'  ?  " 

"  Goin'  t'  take  me  run  out,"  said  Greene, 
with  another  hitch. 

"Now  you  fellows  break  away,"  said  the 
foreman,  for  the  strikers  had  turned  and 
were  walking  with  the  others. 
"  Reckon  you  don't  own  the  side-walk,  do 
you  ?  "  said  one  of  the  men,  and  the  fore 
man  was  silent. 

"Didn't  think  you'd  shake  us  like  this 
Billy,"  began  the  striker.  "  We  Intended  to 
take  you  into  the  order  to-day  an'  end  up 
with  a  good  big  blow-out  to-night.  It's  all 
[70] 


CHAPTER  VII 


right  Billy.  You  go  out  on  your  run  and 
when  you  get  in  come  round  to  the  Pacific 
an'  we  '11  square  you  with  the  boys." 
"An'  we'll  have  a  bowl  together,  eh?"  said 
Billy,  for  the  liquor  was  beginning  to  make 
him  happy. 

The  foreman  was  white  with  rage,  but  he 
was  powerless. 

"  You  bet  we  will,  Billy,"  said  the  man  who 
had  done  the  talking. 
"  Hur  —  what  's  this,  boss  ?" 
"  Come    along   now,"   urged    the  foreman, 
tugging  at  Billy's  arm. 
"  Never  run  by  a  tank,"  said  Billy,  setting 
the  air  and  coming  to  a  dead  stall  at  the 
open    door   of    a   beer   saloon.    The   silent 
striker  had  entered   the  saloon,  the   other 
paused  in  the  door,  looked   back,  nodded 
and  asked  :  "  Have  something,  Billy,  b'fore 
you  go  ?" 

"Will  I?"  cried  Billy,  as  he  twisted  from 
the  foreman's  grasp. 

"  Police  —  here  —  officer  !  "    cried  the   fore- 
[71  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


man,  and  when  the  copper  came  he  found 
Billy  just  swallowing  his  second  straight. 
"Here,"   said   the   foreman,   excitedly,    "I 
want  you  to  arrest  these  men." 
"  Better  get  a  warrant  first,"  said  one  of  the 
strikers  coolly.  "We  simply  came  in  here 
to  have  a  drink,"  he  explained  to  the  offi 
cer. 

"Phat's  th'  row  hier,  Tony?"  asked  the 
policeman. 

"  Th'  ain't  no  row  as  I  can  see,"  said  the 
bar-keeper,  "these  gents  is  'aving  a  quiet 
drink  w'en  'ees  nibs  there  pips  in  an'  calls 
fer  a  cop." 

"This  is  one  of  our  engineers,"  explained 
the  foreman,  "  and  I  was  on  the  way  to  the 
station  with  him  when  these  strikers  took 
him  away." 

"  Begad,  he  's  a  bute,"  said  the  officer,  fold 
ing  his  arms  over  his  ample  stomach  and 
gazing  with  mirthful  curiosity  at  the  bum. 
"Now,  ye's  fellies  must  not  interfere  with 
men  as  wants  to  make  an  honest  living  — 
[72] 


CHAPTER  VII 


let  th'  ingineer  go  t'  'is  ingine,"  and  he  gave 
Billy  a  shove  that  sent  him  into  the  arms  of 
the  waiting  foreman. 

"  What  's  it  to  you,"  shouted  the  angry  en 
gine-driver,  "  who  wants  to  work  —  who  said 
I  wanted  t'  make  a'  honest  livin'  ?  —  Go  t' 
'ell,"  and  he  struck  the  foreman  in  the  face. 
"Here!  Here!!"  cried  the  officer,  seizing 
the  fighter,  "  you  '11  go  to  work  or  go  to 
jail,"  and  Billy  went  away  between  the 
copper  and  the  foreman  with  his  wheels 
sliding. 

After  much  coaxing  and  cursing  by  the 
foreman,  who  was  often  asked  to  come  out 
in  the  alley  and  settle  it,  Billy  was  loaded 
into  an  engine  cab.  While  the  foreman  was 
selecting  a  fireman  from  the  hard-looking 
herd  of  applicants  sent  down  from  the  office 
of  the  master-mechanic,  the  gentle  warmth 
of  the  boiler-head  put  Billy  to  sleep.  It  was 
a  sound,  and  apparently  dreamless  sleep, 
from  which  he  did  not  wake  the  while  they 
rolled  him  from  the  engine,  loaded  him  into 
[73] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


a  hurry-up  wagon  and  carried  him  away  to 
the  cooler. 

When  he  had  sobered  up  Greene  went  to 
the  round-house  and  offered  his  services  to 
the  company,  but  the  foreman  would  not 
talk  to  him.  Finally  Greene  became  abu 
sive,  and  the  foreman  kicked  him  out  of 
the  round-house  and  across  the  turntable. 
From  that  day  Greene  was  a  striker,  and  a 
very  troublesome  one. 


[74] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTH 

JLwo  weeks  had  passed  when  the  Philoso 
pher  met  Patsy,  now  in  deep  disgrace.  Pat 
sy  had  been  expelled  from  the  Brotherhood 
for  aiding  a  scab.  "  O !  it 's  nothing,"  said 
Patsy. 

"  That 's  right.  It  won't  be  worth  much  to 
belong  to  the  Union  when  this  cruel  war  is 
over." 

"  Only  a  fellow  hates  to  get  the  worst  of  it 
when  he  really  tries  to  tote  fair." 
"  The  best  you  can  get  is  the  worst  of  it 
when  you  are  bound  by  oath  to  an  organi 
zation  that  is  engaged  in  a  hopeless  fight. 
The  president  offered  yesterday  to  take 
back  seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  men,  and 
immediately  they  said  he  was  running.  This 
morning  the  offer  is  for  sixty  per  cent.,  but 
they  won't  have  it.  Have  they  offered  to 
balm  you  with  promotion  ?" 
"Yes." 

"  Varnished  cars,  eh  ?" 
"  Yep — finest  train  on  the  road." 
[75] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  And  you  told  them  ?—  " 
«  No." 

"  Well,  I  think  you  did  right.  Shall  we  go 
and  peck  ?" 

"  Have  you  been  working  ?" 
"  No.  1  Ve  been  vag'd.  When  the  police 
got  through  with  me,  and  returned  my 
pie-card  I  turned  it  in  for  a  commutation 
ticket,  and  there  are  still  a  few  feeds  to  the 
good  on  it.  The  commutation  ticket  is  the 
proper  card  for  a  gentleman  in  straitened 
circumstances.  You  are  not  obliged  to  gorge 
yourself  at  early  morn  with  a  whole  twenty- 
cent  breakfast  when  all  you  really  need  is  a 
cup  of  black  coffee  and  a  roll.  Besides,  when 
a  man  is  not  working  he  should  not  eat  so 
much.  I  frequently  edge  in  with  a  crowd  of 
other  gentlemen  and  procure  a  nice  warm 
lunch  at  one  of  the  beer  saloons,  omitting 
the  beer.  By  the  way,  the  free  lunch  room 
is  a  good  place  for  the  study  of  human  na 
ture.  There  you  will  see  the  poor  working 
man  fish  up  his  last  five  cents  to  pay  for 
[  76] 


CHAPTER  VIII 


a  beer  in  order  to  get  a  hot  lunch,  and  if 
you  look  closely,  spot  a  two-by-four-shop 
keeper,  for  instance,  as  he  enters  the  front 
door,  and  keep  your  eye  on  him  until  he 
goes  out  again,  you  will  observe  that  he 
hasn't  lost  a  cent.  A  little  dark  man  who 
runs  a  three-ball  in  La  Salle  Street  makes  a 
business  of  this,  and  of  loaning  money  at 
fifty  per  cent,  and  seems  to  be  doing  quite 
well." 

When  they  had  reached  a  "  Kohlsaat  "  the 
two  men  sat  down,  or  up,  and  when  they 
had  finished  Patsy  paid  for  the  meal. 
"  If  you  see  a  man  who  has  wood  to  saw  or 
a  piano  to  tune  or  anything  that  is  n't  scab- 
bin'  I  wish  you  'd  give  me  a  character  and 
get  me  the  job,"  said  the  Philosopher  when 
they  had  reached  the  sidewalk. 
"  You  follow  my  smoke,"  said  Patsy,  after  a 
moment's  meditation,  and  he  strolled  down 
the  crowded  street,  turning  and  twisting 
through  the  multitude  like  a  man  trying 
to  lose  a  dog,  but  he  could  n't  lose  the  Phi- 
[77] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


losopher.  Presently  he  stepped  in  front  of  a 
big  building,  waited  for  his  companion,  and 
they  went  in  together. 

"  Mr.  Stonaker,"  said  Patsy  when  he  had 
been   admitted    to    the    general    manager's 
private  office,   "  I  have  a  favor  to  ask.   I 
want  you  to  give  a  friend  of  mine  a  job. 
He's  a  switchman,  and  a  good  trainman, 
but  he  will  not  take  the  place  of  a  striker." 
"  Can  you  vouch  for  his  honesty,  Patsy  ?  " 
asked  the  official. 
"  I  think  I  can." 

"  Very  well,  we  want  a  reliable  watchman 
here  in  the  building  ;  bring  your  friend  in." 
When  the  Philosopher  had  been  informed 
as  to  his  new  duties,  and  learned  that  he 
was  to  have  charge  of  the  entire  building, 
he  asked  if  Patsy  had  given  his  history. 
"  I  have  vouched   for   you,"  said   Patsy,  a 
little  embarrassed. 

The  genera]  manager  pressed  a  button  and 

when  the  stenographer  came  in  instructed 

him  to  take  the  man's  personal  record,  in 

[78] 


CHAPTER  VIII 


accordance  with  a  well-known  rule.  This 
information  is  intended  chiefly  as  a  guide  to 
the  management  in  notifying  the  relatives 
or  friends  of  an  employee  in  case  of  accident 
or  death.  The  manager  did  the  questioning 
and  when  the  man  had  given  his  name  and 
declared  that  he  had  no  relatives,  no  home, 
no  friends  —  except  Patsy  —  the  official 
showed  some  surprise  and  asked  : 
"  Where  did  you  work  last  ?  " 
"  In  the  workhouse." 

"  When  ?  "   queried    the   general   manager, 
casting  a  quick  glance  at  Patsy,  who  was 
growing  nervous. 
"  'Bout  a  year  ago  now." 
"  At  what  particular  place  have  you  lived 
or  lodged  since  that  tune  ?  " 
"In  jail." 

"  What  were  you  in  jail  for  ?  " 
"  Stealing  a  meal-ticket,  this  coat  and  cap 
from  Patsy." 

"  I  gave  the  things  to  him,  sir,"  said  Patsy, 
"  and  he  was  discharged." 
[79] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  Where  have  you  been  living   since  you 
left  the  workhouse  ?  " 
"  In  the  streets  and  in  the  fields." 
"  Do  you  drink  ?  " 
"  No,  sir." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  an  experi 
enced   yardman,  strong   and   intelligent  as 
you  appear  to  be,  can  sink  so  low  without 
being  a  drunkard  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  have  been  foreman  in  the  Buffalo 
yards  ?  What  else  have  you  been  ?  " 
"  A  Union  man,  tramp,  bum,  vag,  thief,  and 
a  scab." 

"  Huh  !  "  said  the  general  manager,  push 
ing  out  his  lips,  "is  this  your  notion  of  a 
reliable  man,  Patsy  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir,  I  still  vouch  for  him." 
The  general  manager  looked  puzzled.  "  But 
you  could  hardly  expect  me  to  employ,  in 
a  responsible  position,  a  self-confessed  crim 
inal?" 

"  And  yet,"  said  the  Philosopher,  "  if  I  had 
[80] 


CHAPTER  VIII 


lied  to  you  I  might  have  gained  a  good 
place,  but  having  told  the  truth  I  suppose 
I  must  go." 

The  general  manager,  who  had  left  his  seat, 
began  to  pace  the  floor. 
"  It  may  be  possible  for  an  honest  man  to 
be  a  tramp  —  even  a  vag,  but  why  did  you 
steal  ?  " 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  I  took  the  place 
of  a  striker  the  other  day  —  because  I  was 
hungry,"  said  the  Philosopher  looking  the 
general  manager  full  hi  the  face. 
"  But  what  brought  you  to  this  condition  ? 
that  's  what  I  want  to  know,"  said  the  offi 
cial  earnestly.  "  And  if  you  can  explain  that, 
you  can  have  the  place,  provided  you  really 
want  to  reform." 

"  I  'm  not  so  anxious  to  reform,"  said  the 
Philosopher.  "  What  I  want  is  a  show  to 
earn  an  honest  living,  and  let  the  balance 
of  the  world  reform.  But  if  you  want  to 
know  what  brought  me  to  my  present  con 
dition  I  can  tell  you  —  this  is  the  instru- 
[81  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


ment."  And  the  man  lifted  from  the  man 

ager's  desk  a  slip  of  paper,  full  of  names, 

across  the  top  of  which  was  printed  "  Black 

List." 

"  It  's   the  blight  of  the  black-list  that  is 

upon  me,  sir,  and  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  be 

able  to  present  to  you  a  sample  of  the  class 

of  citizens  you  and  your  associates  are  turn 

ing  out,"  said  the  Philosopher  with  much 

feeling,  and  he  turned  to  go. 

"  Stay,"  said  Patsy.  "  Mr.  Stonaker,  you  told 

me  yesterday  that  if  I   ever  needed  your 

assistance  in  any  way  to  make  my  wants 

known." 

"  And  do  you  still  vouch  for  this  man  ?  " 

«  I  do." 

"  Very  well,  then  —  he  can  have  the  place  !  " 


[82] 


CHAPTER   NINTH 

IVlii.  HAWKINS  had  been  in  his  new  lodg 
ings  nearly  a  week  and  had  frequently  dis 
cussed  the  strike  with  the  great  labor  leader, 
when  he  made  bold  one  evening  to  state 
that  he  had  no  use  for  the  Brotherhood  and 
that  he  had  it  from  inside  sources  that  a 
number  of  the  old  engineers  were  going  to 
return  to  work,  and  that  the  strike  would 
soon  be  a  thing  of  the  past,  as  would  the 
comfortable  jobs  that  the  strikers  had  left. 
Cowels,  of  course,  was  indignant,  but  he 
was  interested.  Mr.  Hawkins  had  expected 
as  much. 

"  I  'm  going  out  firing  myself,"  he  went  on, 
"  and  I  'm  promised  promotion  as  soon  as  I 
can  start  and  stop.  If  I  had  your  experience 
and  your  ability,  generally,  I  could  get  the 
best  run  on  the  road  with  a  cinch  on  a 
job  as  M.  M.  at  the  first  opening.  A  good 
man  who  goes  to  the  company's  rescue 
now  won't  want  for  anything.  If  he 's  hard 
up  he  can  get  all  the  money  he  needs — 
[83] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


that  is  a  fcw  hundred  at  least  —  advanced 
to  him." 

Cowels  listened  attentively. 
Mr.  Hawkins  lighted  a  fresh  ten-cent  cigar 
and  gave  one  to  his  landlord. 
"  Of  course,  it  's  different  with  you,"  resumed 
the  lodger,  "  you  own  your  home  and  have 
saved  your  money,  perhaps,  but  a  whole  lot 
of  the  strikers  are  being  pinched  and  they  're 
going  to  weaken.  They'll  be  cursed  a  little 
bit  by  the  Brotherhood,  but  the  public  is 
dead  against  the  strikers  —  read  the  Chicago 
papers  to-day." 

"  But  the  papers  are  owned  body  and  soul 
by  the  Burlington,"  said  Cowels. 
"  Well,  what  do  you  fellows  own  ?  That 
only  shows  which  is  the  whining  side.  You 
take  my  advice  and  let  go  while  you  've  got 
plenty." 

"  Plenty  ?  "  echoed  Cowels.  "  Do  you  sup 
pose  I  'd  take  a  stranger  into  my  home  — 
do  you  think  for  a  minute  that  I  would  sit 
here  and  let  you  talk  to  me  as  you  have 
[84] 


CHAPTER   IX 


done  if  I  could  help  myself  ?  Plenty  !  I  'm  a 
beggar." 

Hawkins  knew  that,  but  he  expressed  sur 
prise.  When  they  had  smoked  in  silence  for 
a  while  the  plumber  handed  an  unsealed 
letter  to  his  landlord  and  watched  his  face 
closely  as  he  read  it. 

The  letter  was  from  one  of  the  Burlington 
officials  and  it  stated  plainly  that  the  bearer 
was  empowered  to  make  terms  with  the 
gentleman  addressed  looking  to  his  return 
to  the  service  of  the  company. 
Mr.  Cowels  was  very  indignant,  at  first,  but 
finally  consented  to  discuss  the  matter.  Mr. 
Hawkins  was  very  cool,  explaining  that  it 
made  no  difference  with  him  one  way  or 
the  other.  The  official  happened  to  be  a 
personal  friend  of  his  and  had  trusted  him 
with  this  commission.  "  If  you  ask  my  ad 
vice,"  said  the  plumber,  "  I  should  say  take 
whatever  they  offer  and  go  to  work.  No 
man  can  hold  out  against  such  odds  for  any 
great  length  of  time  ;  sooner  or  later  you  will 
[85] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


be  as  hard  up  as  the  rest,  your  wife  will  be 
in  need  of  the  actual  necessaries  of  life,  your 
children  will  be  crying  for  food,  and  how 
can  you  answer  them  if  you  let  this  oppor 
tunity  pass  ?  To-morrow,  I  am  told,  is  to  be 
the  last  day  of  grace,  so  you  might  better 
heel  yourself  and  let  the  Brotherhood  walk 
the  floor  for  a  while.  The  probabilities  are 
that  the  strike  will  simply  be  declared  off, 
the  old  employees  to  be  taken  back  only  as 
their  services  are  required,  and  as  new  men. 
Every  day  that  passes  adds  to  the  strength 
of  the  company.  Labor  organizations,  like 
bands  of  Indians,  are  ever  at  each  other's 
throats.  When  the  Knights  of  Labor  struck 
on  the  Reading  those  haughty  aristocrats  of 
the  working  world,  the  Engineers'  Brother 
hood,  took  their  places,  and  now  the  Knights 
of  Labor  engineers  are  coming  here  in  car 
load  lots  to  fill  the  cabs  of  the  Burlington. 
If  the  engineers  were  offered  their  old  places 
back  to-day  they  would  bolt  for  the  round 
house  nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look 
[86] 


CHAPTER  IX 


for  their  old  friends.  Finally,  when  the 
strike  is  settled  it  will  be  by  the  engineers. 
If  it  is  to  be  declared  off,  the  unconditional 
surrender  of  all  the  forces  will  be  made  by 
them.  If  the  terms  of  settlement  suit  them, 
your  followers  will  take  their  medicine  and 
look  pleasant.  Bring  the  matter  nearer 
home,  —  to  your  own  experience.  You  have 
given  your  time,  neglected  your  family,  and 
worked  unceasingly  for  the  advancement  of 
the  cause.  Your  eloquence,  your  genius  and 
your  influence  have  held  the  men  in  line 
when  they  have  wavered  and  would  have 
broken,  and  what  has  your  own  order  done 
for  you,  and  what  will  it  do  at  the  coming 
convention  ?  They  have  guyed  you  in  public 
and  they  will  throw  you  down  hard  when 
the  time  comes.  It  's  nothing  to  me,  only  I 
hate  to  see  a  good  man  turned  down.  I  dis 
like  to  see  real  talent  and  personal  worth 
wasted  upon  a  lot  of  loud-mouthed,  un 
educated  coyotes  who  don't  know  who 
Shakespeare  is.  You  're  too  big  a  man, 
[87] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Cowels,  that  's  the  trouble  ;  you  're  out  of 
your  sphere.  When  you  are  master-me 
chanic,  with  your  hands  full  of  promo 
tions,  they  will  look  up  to  you,  and  it  is 
all  within  easy  reach.  If  you  will  report 
for  duty  to-morrow  morning  you  can  go 
out  on  Blackwings  to-morrow  night,  with 
the  Denver  Limited,  the  finest  train  in  the 
West,  behind  you.  The  best  run  on  the 
road  will  be  the  meanest  position  you  will 
ever  be  asked  to  fill.  But  I  must  say  no 
more,  for  I  don't  want  to  persuade  you  to 
take  a  step  which  you  might  regret  in  after 
years.  I  only  ask  you  to  think  it  over  to 
night  and  choose  between  what  you  call 
loyalty  to  the  Brotherhood,  and  your  plain 
duty  to  your  family  —  Good-night." 
Hawkins  possessed,  in  a  remarkable  degree, 
the  rare  faculty  of  knowing  how  and  when 
to  let  go. 

When  Cowels  had  made  the  foregoing  facts 

known  to  his  wife,  she  was  greatly  surprised 

that  he  would  entertain  such  a  proposition 

[88] 


CHAPTER   IX 


for  the  smallest  fraction  of  a  second,  for  she 
had  always  regarded  him  as  the  soul  of 
honor,  and  wholly  unselfish.  Now  each  pon 
dered  in  silence  over  the  proposition.  From 
her  point  of  view  it  was  a  choice  between 
the  Brotherhood  and  her  home.  Between 
temporary  disgrace  for  her  husband,  and 
hunger  for  her  children,  and  she  was  not 
long  in  making  up  her  mind.  The  baby  had 
been  without  milk  that  day.  It  had  gone  to 
bed  hungry  for  the  first  time  hi  its  life,  and 
the  thought  of  it  made  her  desperate. 
To  Cowels's  way  of  reasoning  it  was  simply 
a  question  of  choice  between  the  position  of 
master  of  the  Brotherhood  and  master-me 
chanic.  Which  was  nearest,  and  which  would 
last  longest  and  pay  best?  These  were  the 
points  he  was  considering,  and  he  chose 
what  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  surest  and 
quickest  way.  To  be  sure,  he  suffered  not  a 
little  at  the  thought  of  deserting  his  com 
rades,  but  his  personal  ambition  and  selfish 
ness  helped  him  to  determine  to  report  on 
[89] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  following  morning,  and  to  go  out  with 
the  fast  express  behind  him  on  the  following 
night.  He  tried  not  to  think  of  the  Brother 
hood,  and  to  fashion  to  himself  the  glory  of 
success,  of  fast  runs  with  Blackwings,  and 
future  promotion. 


[  90] 


CHAPTER   TENTH 

JL  HE  night  winds  moaned  among  the  empty 
freight  cars.  The  arc  lamps  hummed  and 
sputtered,  making  the  flying  frost  look  like 
diamond  dust  dropping  from  the  grinding 
stars.  Out  of  a  shadowy  alley  a  bent  man 
crept,  crouching  under  the  snow-hung  eaves. 
Far  down  the  track,  at  a  crossing,  the  man 
saw  the  flash  of  a  helmet  and  the  glint  of 
brass  buttons,  and  dodged  among  the  cars. 
The  man  had  committed  no  crime  against 
the  law,  but  he  was  willing  to,  and  so 
avoided  the  silent  guardian  of  the  peace, 
pacing  his  beat.  Beyond  the  track  he  came 
to  the  street  door  of  a  two-story  building, 
struck  a  match,  read  the  number  on  the 
transom,  and  entered  the  hall.  At  the  top  of 
the  first  flight  of  stairs  a  door  stood  open. 
Beneath  a  gas  jet  in  the  open  room  Dan 
Moran  sat  reading  a  book.  He  had  heard 
the  unsteady  footsteps  on  the  stair,  but  had 
not  allowed  them  to  disturb  him.  'Now  the 
prowler  paused,  steadied  himself  against 
[91  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  door-jamb,  coughed,  hiccoughed,  hello  'd 
in  a  whisper,  and  Moran  looked  up. 
"Well,   Greene,"  said  Dan,  "what  brings 
you  abroad  on  a  night  like  this  ?  " 
"  Business  !  "  was  the  hah0-  whispered  reply, 
"  Business,  ol'  man." 

Now  the  rum-crazed  rambler  left  the  door, 
put  a  trembling  hand  on  the  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  glanced  back  toward 
the  stairs,  and  peered  into  the  face  of  the 
old  engineer.  "  We  are  betrayed  !  "  he  whis 
pered,  leaning  heavily  upon  the  stand.  His 
wrist  shook  violently,  causing  the  table  to 
quiver.  The  smoking  outfit  upon  the  table 
made  a  low,  rumbling  noise.  "What  's  that  ?  " 
he  asked,  glaring  about. 
Having  satisfied  himself  that  all  was  right 
he  put  both  hands  upon  the  table,  and 
gazing  again  into  the  face  of  Moran,  re 
peated  :  "  We  are  betrayed.  Cowels  is  goin' 
out  with  Blackwings  on  the  Denver  Limited 
to-morrow  night.  The  plumber  told  the 
foreman  an  hour  ago  —  I  heard  'im.  Least 
[92] 


CHAPTER  X 


they  think  he  's  goin',  but  he  ain't.  He  's 
goin'  to  —  " 

"  Oh,  Greene,  you  're  drunk.  Go  home  and 
have  a  good  sleep." 

"  Home  !  Did  you  say  home  ?  I  ain't  got  no 
home.  Drunk?  Yes,  I  been  drunk  lots  o' 
times,  but  I  ain't  drunk  now.  Honest,  I 
ain't  teched  a  drop  to-day.  Got  a  bot  about 
you,  ol'  man  ?  Say,  if  you  have,  fur  th'  love 
o'  life  gimme  a  drop  —  hah0  a  drop  —  Dan, 
I  'm  all  afire  inside." 

It  was  an  awful  picture  that  Moran  looked 
upon  now.  The   bloated  face,  the  sunken, 
blood-shot  eyes,  the  blazing,  hideous  nose, 
burning  in  the  iron-gray  stubble,  all  topped 
by  a  shock  of  tousled,  unkempt  hair,  made 
a  picture  horrible  in  the  extreme. 
"  Say  !  "  Greene  began  again,  glancing  to 
ward  the  door,  "meet  me  at  seven  thirty 
to-morrow  night,  on  the  *  rep  '  track  near 
the  round-house,  an'  111  show  you  a  trick." 
"  What  sort  of  trick  will  you  show  me  ?  " 
With  another  look  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
[93] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


door  the  drunkard  leaned  over  the  table  and 
whispered.  When  the  old  engineer  had  gath 
ered  what  the  man  had  said  he  got  to  his 
feet,  took  his  midnight  caller  by  the  collar 
and  lead  him  to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Greene 
was  opposed  to  leaving  the  cheerful  room, 
so  Moran  was  obliged  to  go  with  him  to  the 
street  door.  Having  put  the  wreck  out  into 
the  frosty  night  the  engineer  went  back  to 
his  book.  But  he  could  not  read.  That  aw 
ful  face  into  which  he  had  looked,  and  the 
black  soul  that  he  had  seen  as  well,  haunted 
him.  He  sat  with  his  feet  upon  the  table 
and  smoked  pipe  after  pipe,  in  a  vain  effort 
to  drive  the  frightful  picture  from  his  mind. 
The  news  that  Greene  had  brought  dis 
turbed  him  also.  His  fireman  was  going  to 
desert  the  Brotherhood,  and  take  their  old 
engine  out. 

Blackwings  !  How  he  loved  that  locomotive, 
and  how  absurd  it  seemed  now  for  a  man  to 
become  so  attached  to  a  mere  machine  !  But 
she  was  not  inanimate.  She  lived,  moved, 
[94  ] 


CHAPTER  X 


breathed.  How  often,  as  they  swept  be 
neath  the  stars  of  an  autumn  night,  had  he 
felt  her  hot  breath  upon  his  face,  heard  the 
steel  singing  beneath  her  feet  and  felt  her 
tremble,  responsive  to  his  lightest  touch. 
How  wild  and  free  and  glad  she  had 
seemed,  let  loose  in  the  moonlight  with  the 
Limited  behind  her.  How  gracefully,  easily, 
she  lifted  the  huge,  vestibuled  train  from 
swale  to  swell.  How  she  always  passed  sta 
tion  after  station  on  the  tick  of  the  clock, 
keeping  to  the  time-card,  unvarying  as  the 
sun.  Proud  and  queenly,  yet  gentle,  she 
always  answered  the  signals  of  the  less  for 
tunate  locomotives  that  stood  panting  on 
the  side  tracks,  with  their  heavy  loads. 
Even  the  Meteor,  the  engine  that  wore 
white  flags  and  pulled  the  president's  pri 
vate  car,  always  took  the  siding  and  saluted 
Blackwings  as  she  swept  by  majestically 
with  the  Limited. 

More  than  once  Moran  had  refused  promo 
tion  that  would  take  him  from  his  engine 
[95] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


-  from  the  open  fields  and  free,  wide  world 
in  which  they  lived  and  moved  together  — 
to  the  cares  and  anxieties  of  a  stuffy  office. 
He  had  been  contented  and  happy  with 
Blackwings,  his  books  and  his  briar-root 
pipe.  He  did  not  share  the  troubles  of  his 
less  fortunate  brothers,  who  hugged  and 
exaggerated  their  grievances  until  they  be 
came,  to  them,  unbearable.  But  when  they 
quit  he  climbed  down,  took  off  his  over- 
clothes,  folded  them  carefully  and  carried 
them  away  with  him.  He  had  nothing  to 
gain  by  the  strike,  but  he  had  much  to  lose 
by  remaining  at  his  post  —  the  confidence 
and  respect  of  his  fellow-toilers.  Besides  he, 
in  common  with  the  rest,  regarded  the  clas 
sification  of  engineers  as  unfair  to  the  men 
and  to  the  travelling  public.  If  a  man  were 
competent  to  handle  a  passenger  train,  said 
the  strikers,  he  ought  to  have  first-class  pay. 
If  he  were  incompetent  he  ought  to  be 
taken  off,  for  thousands  of  lives  were  in  the 
hands  of  the  engineer  during  the  three  years 
[96] 


CHAPTER   X 


through  which,  at  reduced  pay,  he  was  be 
coming  competent.  These  were  the  argu 
ments  advanced  by  the  men.  This  business 
upon  the  one  hand,  and  a  deep  longing  upon 
the  part  of  the  management  to  learn  just 
how  far  the  men  could  go  in  the  way  of  dic 
tating  to  the  officials,  in  fixing  the  load  for 
a  locomotive,  and  the  pay  of  employees, 
caused  the  company,  after  years  of  sparing, 
to  undertake  the  chastisement  of  the  Bro 
therhood  of  Locomotive  Engineers.* 
It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  generals, 
colonels  and  captains  in  the  two  armies 
fought  for  what  they  considered  right.  At 
all  events  they  were  loyal  and  obedient  to 
their  superiors.  But  each  had  found  a  foe 
vastly  more  formidable  than  had  been  ex- 

*  The  Burlington  officials  claim  that,  by  resolutions  in  the 
lodge  room  at  Lincoln,  the  engineers  Jixed  the  load  for  cer 
tain  classes  of  engines,  together  with  the  penalty  for  pulling 
more.  They  argue  that  if  allowed  to  do  this  the  men  would 
want  to  make  the  time-cards  and  Jix  freight  rates.  They  cer 
tainly  had  as  much  right  to  do  the  one  as  the  other. 

[97] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


pected.  They  had  not  dreamed  that  the 
fight  could  become  so  bitter.  Life-long 
friends  became  enemies.  Family  ties  were 
severed,  homes  were  ruined,  men's  lives 
were  wrecked,  women's  hearts  were  broken, 
and  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  awful  strife 
came  men  fit  for  murder.  It  was  these 
things  that  had  kept  Dan  Moran  awake 
far  into  the  morning. 

Presently  he  heard  a  whistle,  opened  his 
eyes,  looked  at  his  watch  and  then  un 
dressed  and  went  to  bed,  while  other  work 
men,  more  happily  situated,  passed  under 
his  window  on  the  way  to  work. 


[98] 


CHAPTER   ELEVENTH 

_L>RUSH  the  snow  off  the  headlight !  " 
«  What  ? " 

"  Brush  the  snow  off  the  headlight ! " 
It  was  the  first  tune  the  engineer  had 
spoken  to  the  fireman  since  they  left  Chi 
cago.  When  they  crossed  the  last  switch 
and  left  the  lights  of  the  city  behind  them 
he  had  settled  down  in  his  place,  his  eyes, 
with  a  sort  of  dazed  look  in  them,  fixed 
upon  the  front  window.  The  snow  was 
driving  from  the  north-west  so  hard  that 
it  was  impossible  for  the  engineer,  even 
when  running  slowly  through  the  country 
towns,  to  put  his  head  outside  the  cab,  and 
now  they  were  falling  out  into  the  night  at 
the  rate  of  a  mile  a  minute. 
It.  was  Barney  Guerin's  first  trip  as  a  fire 
man.  He  was  almost  exhausted  by  the  honest 
effort  he  had  been  making  to  keep  the  engine 
hot,  and  now  he  looked  at  the  engineer  in 
mingled  surprise  and  horror.  He  could  not 
believe  that  the  man  expected  him  to  go 
[99] 


out  over  the  wet  and  slippery  running-board 
to  the  pilot  and  wipe  the  snow  from  the 
headlight  glass.  He  stood  and  stared  so  long 
that  the  fire  burned  low  and  the  pointer  on 
the  steam  gauge  went  back  five  pounds.  For 
the  next  two  or  three  minutes  he  busied 
himself  at  the  furnace  door,  and  when  he 
finally  straightened  up,  half-blinded  by  the 
awful  glare  of  the  fire-box,  half-dazed  by 
being  thrown  and  beaten  against  the  sides 
of  the  coal  tank,  the  engineer  said : 
"  Brush  the  snow  off  the  headlight  f  " 
The  fireman  opened  the  narrow  door  in 
front  of  him  and  the  storm  came  in  so 
furiously  that  he  involuntarily  closed  it 
again.  Again  he  tried  and  again  was  beaten 
back  by  the  wind.  Pulling  his  cap  tight 
down  he  faced  about  and  stepped  out 
with  his  back  to  the  storm.  Holding  to 
the  hand  railing  he  worked  his  way  to  the 
front  end.  One  sweep  of  his  gloved  hand 
swept  the  snow  away  and  the  great  glare 
of  the  headlight  flashed  up  the  track. 
[  100  ] 


CHAPTER  XI 


"  My  God  !  how  she  rolls  !  "  exclaimed  the 
engineer. 
And  she  did  roll. 

Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  road  had 
the  Denver  Limited  been  entrusted  to  a 
green  crew,  for  the  engineer  was  also  mak 
ing  his  maiden  trip.  The  day  coach  was  al 
most  empty.  In  the  chair  car,  with  four 
chairs  turned  together,  the  newly-made 
conductor,  the  head  brakeman,  a  country 
editor,  and  the  detective  sent  out  to  spot 
the  crew,  played  high  five.  The  three  or 
four  passengers  in  the  sleeper  were  not 
asleep.  They  were  sitting  silently  at  the 
curtained  windows  and  occasionally  casting 
anxious  glances  at  the  Pullman  conductor 
who  seemed  to  be  expecting  something  to 
happen.  Where  were  all  the  people  who 
used  to  travel  by  this  splendid  train  ?  The 
road  was  now  considered,  by  most  people, 
as  unsafe  and  the  people  were  going  round 
it.  Public  opinion,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
strike,  was  about  equally  divided  between 
[101  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  men  and  the  company.  Now  and  then 
a  reckless  striker  or  sympathizer  would  blow 
up  a  building,  dope  a  locomotive  or  ditch  a 
train,  and  the  stock  of  the  strikers  would  go 
down  in  the  estimation  of  the  public.  Bur 
lington  stock  was  falling  rapidly  —  the  pro 
perty  was  being  wrecked. 
On  nearly  every  side  track  could  be  seen 
two  or  three  dead  engines  that  had  been 
ruined  and  abandoned  by  amateur  engine- 
drivers,  and  now  and  then  at  way-stations 
the  smouldering  ruins  of  a  freight  train, 
whose  blackened  skeleton  still  clung  to  the 
warped  and  twisted  track.  At  every  station 
great  crowds  of  people  blocked  the  plat 
forms,  for  the  Limited  had  not  been  able  to 
leave  Chicago  for  more  than  a  month.  The 
engineer  had  scarcely  touched  the  whistle, 
deeming  it  safer  to  slip  quietly  through  the 
night,  and  the  light  train  was  now  speed 
ing  noiselessly  over  the  snow-muffled  earth. 
They  had  left  Chicago  two  hours  late,  and 
as  they  had  a  clear  track,  so  far  as  other 
[  102  ] 


CHAPTER  XI 


trains  were  concerned,  the  young  driver  was 
letting  her  go  regardless  of  danger.  At  any 
moment  they  might  expect  to  be  blown  into 
eternity,  and  it  was  just  as  safe  at  seventy 
miles  an  hour  as  at  seventeen. 
Besides,  George  Cowels  was  desperate.  For 
five  long  years  he  had  fired  this  run  with 
the  same  locomotive.  He  knew  all  her  tricks 
and  whims,  her  speed  and  power,  and  the 
road  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  was  his 
mother's  face.  He  knew  where  the  "  old 
man  "  used  to  cut  her  back  and  ease  off 
on  the  down  grades.  He  knew  that  he 
ought  to  do  the  same,  but  he  did  not. 
"Let  her  roll,"  he  would  say  to  himself; 
and  she  did  roll,  and  with  every  swung  the 
bell  sounded  a  single  note,  low  and  mourn 
ful,  like  a  church  bell  tolling  for  the  dead. 
It  seemed  to  the  unhappy  engineer  that  it 
tolled  for  him,  for  that  day  he  had  died  to 
all  his  friends. 

Although  he  had  only  been  out  a  little  over 

an  hour  now,  he  knew  that  in  that  hour  the 

[  103  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


story  of  his  desertion  had  flashed  out  to 
every  division  of  the  various  brotherhoods 
in  the  United  States,  Canada  and  Mexico, 
and  that  a  hundred  thousand  men  and 
women  would  curse  him  that  night  before 
they  slept.  He  recollected  what  a  vigorous 
striker  he  had  been  in  the  beginning,  how  he 
had  shouted,  "  Put  him  out  "  when  the  grand 
master  had  said  :  "  We  are  fighting  a  losing 
fight."  He  recalled  with  some  bitterness  that 
their  leader  had  looked  him  straight  in  the 
face  when  he  added  :  "  And  you  who  fight 
hardest  here  will  be  first  to  fall." 
Then  the  face  of  his  ten-year-old  boy  rose 
up  before  him,  as  it  had  appeared  from  the 
street  as  he  was  leaving  his  home  that  even 
ing,  all  bruised  and  bleeding,  with  soiled 
and  torn  clothes,  and  he  heard  the  brave 
child's  explanation  :  "  Mamma,  I  would  n't 
'ave  fit,  but  Dugan's  boy  said  my  papa  was 
a  scab."* 

*  The  reader  must  pardon  the  use  of  this  vulgar  word,  for 
we  must  use  it  here  or  spoil  this  story. 
[  104  ] 


CHAPTER  XI 


Ordinarily  it  would  require  a  great  deal  of 
"  sand  "  to  enable  a  man  to  take  out  a  train 
of  this  kind  and  run  at  such  a  high  rate  of 
speed  through  a  country  full  of  anarchy,  but 
in  Cowels's  case  it  required  nothing  in  the 
way  of  bravery.  The  great  sacrifice  he  had 
made  in  abandoning  all  that  he  held  to  be 
honorable,  —  the  breaking  of  his  vow,  the 
violation  of  his  oath,  had  left  him  utterly 
indifferent  to  personal  danger. 
It  will  be  difficult  for  those  unacquainted 
with  the  vast  army  of  daily  toilers  to  ap 
preciate  the  sufferings  of  this  youthful 
engine-driver.  A  king,  who  in  a  night's 
debauch  loses  an  empire,  loses  no  more 
than  the  man  who  abandons  all  that  he 
holds  sacred.  The  struggles  and  disappoint 
ments  of  the  poor  mean  as  much  to  them 
as  similar  sorrows  mean  to  the  rich.  The 
heart  of  a  Bohemian  milkmaid  beats  as 
wildly,  aches  as  sorely  and  breaks  as  surely 
as  does  the  heart  of  the  proudest  princess. 
This  man  and  his  wife,  on  the  day  they 
[  105  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


abandoned  the  cause  of  his  comrades  —  of 
the  Brotherhood  of  which  he  had  been  so 
proud,  of  whose  strength  he  had  boasted  in 
many  a  crowded  hall  —  made  a  great  sacri 
fice.  To  stand  disgraced  in  their  little  world 
was  to  be  disgraced  before  all  the  people  of 
all  the  earth,  for  in  that  world  were  the  only 
people  they  knew  and  cared  about. 
When  the  fireman  returned  to  the  cab  he 
was  almost  overcome  with  terror.  More  than 
once,  as  he  worked  his  way  along  the  side  of 
the  rolling,  plunging  engine,  he  had  nearly 
been  dashed  to  death.  The  very  machine,  he 
fancied,  was  striving  to  shake  him  from  her. 
Once  he  had  lost  his  footing  on  the  running 
board  and  only  saved  himself  by  clinging 
to  the  hand  rail  while  the  rolling  steed  beat 
and  thrashed  him  against  her  iron  side. 
"Never  ask  me  to  do  that  again,"  he 
shouted,  as  he  shook  his  clenched  fist  at 
the  engineer.  The  latter  laughed,  then 
asked  : 
«  Why  ?  " 

[  106  ] 


CHAPTER  XI 


"  Because  it  is  dangerous  ;  I  nearly  lost  my 
life." 

"  And  what  if  you  had  ?  "  said  the  engineer, 
and  he  laughed  again.  "Why,  don't  you 
know  that  thousands  would  rejoice  at  the 
news  of  your  death  and  scarcely  a  man 
would  mourn  ?  Don't  you  know  that  at 
thousands  of  supper-tables  to-night,  work 
ing  men  who  could  afford  to  buy  an  evening 
paper  read  your  name  and  cursed  you  be 
fore  their  wives  and  children  ?  Nearly  lost 
your  life  !  Poor,  miserable,  contemptible 
scab." 

"  Never  apply  that  name  to  me  again  !  " 
shouted  Guerin,  and  this  time  it  was  not 
his  fist  but  the  coal-pick  he  shoved  up  into 
the  very  face  of  the  engineer. 
"Why?" 

"  Because  it  is  dangerous  ;  you  nearly  lost 
your  life." 

The  engineer  made  no  reply. 
"  And  what  if  you  had  ?  "  the  fireman  went 
on,  for  it  was  his  turn  to  talk  now. 
[  107  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  If  my  action  makes  me  contemptible  in 
the  eyes  of  men,  how  much  more  contempt 
ible  must  yours  make  you  ?  I  take  the  place 
of  a  stranger  —  you  the  place  of  a  friend  ;  a 
man  who  has  educated  you,  who  has  taught 
you  all  you  know  about  this  machine.  Right 
well  I  know  how  I  shall  be  hated  by  the 
dynamiters  who  are  blowing  up  bridges  and 
burning  cars,  and  I  tell  you  now  that  it 
does  not  grieve  me.  Can  you  say  as  much  ? 
Here  's  a  copy  of  the  message  that  went  out 
to  your  miserable  little  world  to-night  — 
read  it,  it  will  do  you  good.  I  fancy  your 
friends  will  be  too  busy  cursing  you  this 
evening  to  devote  any  time  to  mere  stran 
gers." 

Cowels  took  the  message  with  a  jerk,  turned 
the  gauge  lamp  to  his  corner  and  read  : 

AHE  Denver  Limited  left  to-night,  two 
hours  late,  Fireman  George  Cowels  as  en 
gineer,  and  Time-keeper  Guerin  as  fireman. 
Cowels  is  the  man  who  wanted  the  grand 
[  108  ] 


CHAPTER  XI 


master  thrown  out  of  a  hall  in  Chicago.  He 
was  a  great  labor  agitator  and  his  desertion 
is  a  great  surprise.  HOGAN. 

Later  —  It  is  now  understood  that  Cowels, 
the  scab  who  went  out  on  engine  Black- 
wings  to-night,  was  bought  outright  by  a 
Burlington  detective.  This  fact  makes  his 
action  all  the  more  contemptible.  He  is  now 
being  burned  in  effigy  on  the  lake  front,  and 
the  police  are  busy  trying  to  keep  an  infuri 
ated  mob  from  raiding  and  burning  his  house. 
The  action  of  Guerin  was  no  surprise,  as  he 
was  employed  in  the  office  of  the  master- 
mechanic,  and  has  always  been  regarded  as 
a  company  man  —  almost  as  an  official. 

HOGAN. 

Guerin,  having  put  in  a  fresh  fire,  stood 
watching  the  face  of  his  companion,  and 
when  the  engineer  crumpled  the  message 
in  his  hand  and  ground  his  teeth  together 
the  fireman  shoved  another  message  under 
the  nose  of  the  unhappy  man.  This  message 
was  on  the  same  subject,  but  from  quite 
[  109  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


another   source,   and   varied    slightly   from 
those  we  have  just  read. 

OFFICIAL  BULLETIN  :  Burlington  Route 
THE  Denver  Limited  went  out  on  time  to 
night  with  a  reasonably  well-filled  train,  En 
gineer  Cowels  in  the  cab.  Mr.  Cowels  has 
been  many  years  in  the  service  of  the  com 
pany  and  is  highly  esteemed  by  the  officials. 
Although  he  was,  for  a  time,  a  prominent 
striker,  he  saw  the  folly  of  further  resistance 
on  the  part  of  the  employees,  and  this  morn 
ing  came  to  the  company's  office  and  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  return  to  his  old  run,  which 
request  was  granted.  Cowels  is  a  thoroughly 
competent  engineer  and  has  been  on  this 
same  run  for  five  years,  and  up  to  the  time 
of  the  strike  had  never  missed  a  trip.  It  is 
expected  that  his  return  to  his  engine  will 
be  the  signal  for  a  general  stampede.  The 
company  has  generously  agreed  to  reinstate 
all  old  employees  (unless  guilty  of  some  law 
less  act)  who  return  before  noon  to-morrow. 

STONAKER. 
[110] 


CHAPTER  XI 


It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of  these 
dispatches  distressed  him  most.  The  first 
said  he  had  sold  himself  for  so  much  money, 
the  second  that  he  had  gone  to  the  com 
pany  and  begged  to  be  reinstated.  Slowly 
he  opened  the  first  crumpled  message  and 
read  down  to  the  word  "  scab."  "  George 
Cowels,  the  scab,  —  burned  hi  effigy  —  a 
great  mob  about  his  house."  All  these  things 
passed  swiftly  before  him,  and  the  thought 
of  his  wife  and  baby  being  in  actual  danger, 
his  boy  being  kicked  and  cuffed  about,  al 
most  made  him  mad.  He  crushed  the  crum 
pled  messages  in  his  right  hand  while  with 
his  left  he  pulled  the  throttle  wide  open. 
The  powerful  Blackwings,  built  to  make 
time  with  ten  cars  loaded,  leaped  forward 
like  a  frightened  deer.  The  speed  of  the 
train  was  now  terrific,  and  the  stations, 
miles  apart,  brushed  by  them  like  telegraph 
poles.  At  Mendota  a  crowd  of  men  hurled 
sticks  and  stones  at  the  flying  train.  As  the 
stones  hailed  into  the  cab,  and  the  broken 

[in  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


glass  rained  over  him,  the  desperate  driver 
never  so  much  as  glanced  to  either  side,  but 
held  his  place,  his  hand  on  the  throttle  and 
his  eye  on  the  track.  For  the  first  time  he 
looked  at  his  watch.  He  was  still  more  than 
an  hour  late.  He  remembered  how  the  old 
engineer  had  said,  an  hundred  times  per 
haps  :  "  George,  an  express  train  should 
never  be  late;  she  should  be  on  time  or 
in  the  ditch." 

It  was  the  first  time  Blackwings  had  ever 
been  an  hour  late  anywhere,  and  with  all 
his  greater  sorrows  this  grieved  the  young 
engineer.  Now  at  the  way  stations  the 
crowd  that  awaited  them  invariably  fell 
back  as  the  wild  train  dashed  by,  or,  if  they 
hurled  their  missiles,  those  aimed  at  the  loco 
motive  struck  the  sleeper  or  flew  across  the 
track  behind  it,  so  great  was  the  speed  of 
the  train.  Cowels  yielded  at  last  to  the  irre 
sistible  desire  to  see  how  his  companion  was 
taking  it,  but  as  he  bent  his  gaze  hi  that 
direction  it  encountered  the  grinning  face 
[112] 


CHAPTER  XI 


of  the  fireman,  into  which  he  threw  the 
crumpled  paper.  Then,  as  he  continued  to 
grin,  the  infuriated  engineer  grabbed  a 
hard-hammer  and  hurled  it  murderously  at 
Guerin's  head.  The  latter  saved  his  life  by  a 
clever  dodge,  and  springing  to  the  driver's 
side  caught  him  by  the  back  of  the  neck 
and  shoved  his  head  out  at  the  window  and 
held  it  there.  They  were  just  at  that  mo 
ment  descending  a  long  grade  down  which 
the  most  daring  driver  always  ran  with  a 
closed  throttle.  Blackwings  was  wide  open, 
and  now  she  appeared  to  be  simply  rolling 
and  falling  through  space.  Although  we 
have  no  way  of  knowing  how  fast  she  fell, 
it  is  safe  to  say  she  was  making  ninety  miles 
an  hour.  While  the  fireman  held  on  to  the 
engineer,  squeezing  and  shaking  away  at 
the  back  of  his  neck,  the  speed  of  the  train 
was  increasing  with  every  turn  of  the  wheels. 
Gradually  the  resistance  of  the  engineer 
grew  feebler  until  all  at  once  he  dropped 
across  the  arm-rest,  limp  and  lifeless.  Guerin, 
[  113] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


finding  himself  alone  on  the  flying  engine, 
had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  close  the 
throttle,  but  with  that  his  knowledge  of  the 
locomotive  ended.  He  reasoned  that  in  time 
she  must  run  down  and  stop  of  herself,  and 
then  the  train  crew  would  come  forward  and 
relieve  his  embarrassment.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  for  a  moment  that  he  might  be  re 
garded  as  a  murderer,  for  he  had  only  held 
the  engineer  down  to  the  seat,  with  no  more 
violence  than  boys  use  toward  each  other  in 
play.  And  while  he  stood  staring  at  the  still 
form  of  the  driver  that  hung  out  of  the  win 
dow  like  a  pair  of  wet  overalls,  the  engine 
rolled,  the  snow  drifted  deeper  and  deeper 
on  the  headlight,  and  with  every  roll  the 
bell  tolled  !  tolled  !  !  like  a  church  bell  tolling 
for  the  dead.  The  train,  slowing  down,  rolled 
silently  over  the  shrouded  earth,  the  fire  in 
the  open  furnace  blackened  and  died,  the 
cold  air  chilled  her  flues  and  the  stream  of 
water  from  the  open  injector  flooded  the 
boiler  of  Blackwings  and  put  the  death- 


CHAPTER  XI 


rattle  in  her  throat.  When  at  last  the  train 
rolled  slowly  into  Galesburg  the  fireman 
stood  on  the  deck  of  a  dead  locomotive,  with 
snow  on  her  headlight,  and,  as  the  crowd 
surged  round  him,  pointed  to  the  limp  form 
of  the  young  engineer  that  hung  in  the  win 
dow,  dead. 


[115] 


CHAPTER    TWELFTH 

JUDGE  MEYER'S  court  was  crowded  when 
the  three  big  policemen,  formed  like  a  foot 
ball  team,  wedged  their  way  into  the  build 
ing.  In  the  centre  of  the  "  A  "  walked  the 
prisoner,  handcuffed  and  chained  like  a 
murderer.  When  they  had  arrived  in  front 
of  the  judge  and  the  officers  stepped  back 
they  left  the  prisoner  exposed  to  the  gaze 
of  the  spectators.  Standing  six  feet  two, 
strong  and  erect,  he  looked  as  bold  and 
defiant  as  a  Roman  warrior,  and  at  sight 
of  him  there  ran  a  murmur  through  the 
court  room  which  was  promptly  silenced  by 
the  judge. 

In  response  to  the  usual  questions  the  pris 
oner  said  his  name  was  Dan  Moran,  that  his 
occupation  was  that  of  a  locomotive  engi 
neer.  He  had  been  in  the  employ  of  the 
Burlington  for  a  quarter  of  a  century — 
ever  since  he  was  fifteen  years  old — but 
being  one  of  the  strikers  he  was  now  out 
of  employment. 

[116] 


CHAPTER  XII 


"You  are  charged,"  said  the  clerk,  "with 

trespassing  upon  the  property  of  the  Chi 

cago,  Burlington  &  Quincy  Railroad  Com 

pany,  inciting  a  riot,  attempting  to  blow  up 

a  locomotive  and  threatening  the  life  of  the 

engineer.  How  do  you  plead  ?  " 

"  Not  guilty,"  said  the  old  engine-driver,  and 

as  he  said  this  he  seemed  to  grow  an  inch 

and  looked  grander  than  ever. 

Being  asked  if  he  desired  counsel  the  pris 

oner  said  he  did  not,  that  the  whole  matter 

could  be  explained  by  a  single  witness  —  an 

employee  of  the  company. 

The  company  detective  and  the  police  offi 

cers  exchanged  glances,  the  judge  coughed, 

the  crowd  of  loafers  shifted  ballast  and  rested 

on  the  other  foot.  Only  the  prisoner  stood 

motionless  and  erect. 

The  detective,  the  first  witness  for  the  prose 

cution,  testified  that  he  had  followed  the 

prisoner  into  the  yards   from   among  the 

freight  cars,  watched  him  approach  the  en 

gine  Blackwings  and  talk  with  the  engineer. 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


He  could  not  make  out  all  that  passed,  but 
knew  that  the  men  had  quarrelled.  He  had 
seen  the  prisoner  stoop  down  and  fumble 
about  the  air-pump  on  the  engineer's  side 
of  the  engine.  He  then  rose  and  as  he  moved 
off  made  some  threat  against  the  life  of  the 
engineer  and  about  "  ditching  "  the  train. 
Being  asked  to  repeat  this  important  part 
of  his  testimony,  the  witness  admitted  that 
he  could  not  repeat  the  threat  exactly,  but 
he  was  positive  that  the  prisoner  had  threat 
ened  the  life  of  the  engineer  of  the  Denver 
Limited.  He  was  positive  that  the  last 
words  uttered  by  the  prisoner  as  he  left 
the  engine  were  these  :  "  This  train,  by  this 
time,  ought  to  be  in  the  ditch."  The  witness 
followed  the  statement  with  the  explana 
tion  that  the  train  was  then,  nearly  two 
hours  late.  "  This,"  said  the  witness,  still 
addressing  the  court,  "was  found  in  the 
prisoner's  inside  coat  pocket,"  and  he  held 
up  a  murderous  looking  stick  of  dynamite. 
After  landing  the  would-be  dynamiter  safely 
[ 


CHAPTER  XII 


in  jail  the  detective  had  hastened  back  to 
the  locomotive,  which  was  then  about  to 
start  out  on  her  perilous  run,  and  had  found 
a  part  of  the  fuse,  which  had  been  broken, 
attached  to  the  air  brake  apparatus.  This  he 
exhibited,  also,  and  showed  that  the  piece 
of  fuse  found  on  the  engine  fitted  the  piece 
still  on  the  dynamite. 

It  looked  like  a  clear  case  of  intent  to  kill 
somebody,  and  even  the  prisoner's  friends 
began  to  believe  him  guilty.  Three  other 
witnesses  were  called  for  the  prosecution. 
The  company's  most  trusted  detective,  and 
a  Watchem  man  testified  that  the  prisoner 
had,  up  to  now,  borne  a  good  reputation. 
He  had  been  one  of  the  least  noisy  of  the 
strikers  and  had  often  assisted  the  police 
in  protecting  the  company's  property.  The 
master-mechanic  under  whom  Dan  Moran 
had  worked  as  a  locomotive  engineer  for 
twenty  years  took  the  stand  and  said,  with 
something  like  tears  in  his  voice,  that  Dan 
had  been  one  of  the  best  men  on  the  road. 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Being  questioned  by  the  company's  attorney 
he  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  no  dynamite 
was  attached  to  the  air-pump  of  Blackwings 
when  she  crossed  the  table,  and  that  if  it 
was  there  at  all  it  must  have  been  put  there 
after  the  engine  was  coupled  on  to  the 
Denver  Limited.  Then  he  spoiled  all  this 
and  shocked  the  prosecuting  attorney  by 
expressing  the  belief  that  there  must  be 
some  mistake. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  disbelieve 
this  gentleman,  who,  at  the  risk  of  his  life, 
arrested  this  ruffian  and  prevented  murder  ?  " 
the  lawyer  demanded. 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  said  the  old  man  slowly, 
"that  I  don't  believe  Dan  put  the  dyna 
mite  on  the  engine." 

When  the  master-mechanic  had  been  ex 
cused  and  was  passing  out  Dan  put  out  his 
hand  —  both  hands  in  fact,  for  they  were 
chained  together  —  and  the  company's  offi 
cer  shook  the  manacled  hands  of  the  pris 
oner  and  hurried  on. 

[  120  ] 


CHAPTER  XII 


When  the  prosecution  had  finished,  the 
prisoner  was  asked  to  name  the  witness 
upon  whom  he  relied. 
"  George  Cowels,"  said  the  accused,  and 
there  ran  through  the  audience  another  mur 
mur,  the  judge  frowned,  and  the  standing 
committee  shifted  back  to  the  other  foot. 
"Your  Honor,  please,"  said  the  attorney 
rising,  "we  are  only  wasting  time  with 
this  incorrigible  criminal.  He  must  know 
that  George  Cowels  is  dead  for  he  un 
doubtedly  had  some  hand  in  the  murder, 
and  now  to  show  you  that  he  had  not,  he 
has  the  temerity  to  stand  up  here  and  pre 
tend  to  know  nothing  whatever  about  the 
death  of  the  engineer.  I  must  say  that, 
quiet  and  gentle  as  he  is,  he  is  a  cunning 
villain  to  try  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
the  people  by  pretending  to  be  ignorant 
of  Cowels  's  death.  I  submit,  your  Honor, 
there  is  no  use  in  wasting  time  with  this 
man,  and  we  ask  that  he  be  held  without 
bail,  to  await  the  action  of  the  grand  jury." 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Dan  Moran  appeared  to  pay  little  or  no 
attention  to  what  the  lawyer  was  saying, 
for  the  news  of  Cowels's  death  had  been  a 
great  shock  to  him.  The  fact  that  he  had 
been  locked  up  over  night  and  then  brought 
from  the  jail  to  the  court  in  a  closed  van 
might  have  accounted  for  his  ignorance  of 
Cowels's  death,  but  no  one  appeared  to 
think  of  that.  But  now,  finding  himself  at 
the  open  door  of  a  prison,  with  a  strong 
chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  wound 
about  him,  he  began  to  show  some  interest 
in  what  was  going  on. 

The  judge,  having  adjusted  his  glasses,  and 
opened  and  closed  a  few  books  that  lay  on 
his  desk,  was  about  to  pronounce  sentence 
when  the  prisoner  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
make  a  statement. 

This  the  attorney  for  the  company  objected 
to  as  a  waste  of  time,  for  he  was  satisfied  of 
the  prisoner's  guilt,  but  the  judge  over-ruled 
the  objection  and  the  prisoner  testified. 
He  admitted  having  had  the  dynamite  in 
[  122  ] 


CHAPTER  XII 


his  pocket  when  arrested,  but  said  he  had 
taken  it  from  the  engine  to  prevent  its 
exploding  and  wrecking  the  locomotive. 
He  said  he  had  quarrelled  with  the  engi 
neer  of  Blackwings  at  first,  but  later  they 
came  to  an  understanding.  He  then  gave 
the  young  runner  some  fatherly  advice,  and 
started  to  leave  when  he  was  arrested. 
Although  he  told  his  story  in  a  straight 
forward  honest  way,  it  was,  upon  the  face 
of  it,  so  inconsistent  that  even  the  loafers, 
changing  feet  again,  pitied  the  prisoner  and 
many  of  them  actually  left  the  room  be 
fore  the  judge  could  pronounce  sentence. 
Moran  was  held,  of  course,  and  sent  to  jail 
without  bail.  He  had  hosts  of  friends,  but 
somehow  they  all  appeared  to  be  busy  that 
evening  and  only  a  few  called  to  see  him. 
One  man,  not  of  the  Brotherhood,  said  to 
himself  that  night  as  he  went  to  his  comfort 
able  bed:  "I  will  not  forsake  the  company, 
neither  will  I  forsake  Dan  Moran  until  he 
has  been  proven  guilty." 
[  123  ] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEENTH 

WHILE  Dan  Moran  was  being  examined 
in  Judge  Meyer's  ill-smelling  court  in  Chi 
cago  a  coroner's  jury  was  sitting  on  the  body 
of  the  dead  engineer  at  Galesburg.  Hun 
dreds  of  people  had  been  at  the  station  and 
witnessed  the  arrival  of  the  express  train 
that  came  in  with  a  dead  engine,  with  snow 
on  her  headlight,  and  a  dead  engineer  hang 
ing  out  of  the  window.  Hundreds  of  people 
could  testify  that  this  had  happened,  but 
none  of  them  knew  what  had  caused  the 
death  of  the  engine-driver.  Medical  experts 
who  were  called  in  to  view  the  body  could 
find  no  marks  of  violence  upon  it  and,  in 
order  to  get  out  of  a  close  place  without 
embarrassment,  agreed  that  the  engineer 
had  died  of  heart  failure.  This  information, 
having  been  absorbed  by  the  jury,  they 
gave  in  a  verdict  to  that  effect.  If  the  doc 
tors  had  said,  "  He  died  for  want  of  breath," 
the  verdict  would  no  doubt  have  agreed 
perfectly  with  what  the  doctors  said. 
'[  124  ] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


After  the  train  had  arrived  and  the  coroner 
was  called  and  had  taken  the  dead  man 
from  the  engine,  Barney  Guerin  had  wan 
dered  into  a  small  hotel  near  the  station 
and  engaged  a  room  for  the  night.  Being 
the  only  person  on  the  engine  at  the  time 
of  the  engineer's  death,  Guerin  was  very 
naturally  attracting  the  attention  of  the 
railway  officials,  and  calling  about  him,  un 
consciously,  all  the  amateur  detectives  and 
newspaper  reporters  in  the  place.  Fortu 
nately  for  him,  he  was  arrested,  upon  a 
warrant  sworn  out  by  the  station  agent, 
and  lodged  in  jail  before  the  reporters  got 
at  him.  Here  he  was  visited  by  a  local 
lawyer,  for  the  company,  and  instructed  to 
say  nothing  whatever  about  the  death  of 
Cowels. 

Upon  the  announcement  of  the  verdict  of 
the  coroner's  jury  the  prisoner  was  released, 
and  returned  to  Chicago  by  the  same  train 
that  bore  the  remains  of  the  dead  engineer. 
Guerin,  whose  heart  was  as  big  as  his  body 
[  125  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


and  as  tender  as  a  woman's,  hastened  to  the 
home  of  his  late  companion  and  begged  the 
grief-sick  widow  to  allow  him  to  be  of  some 
service  to  her.  His  appearance  (she  had 
known  him  by  sight)  excited  her  greatly  for 
she  knew  he  had  been  arrested  as  the  mur 
derer  of  her  husband. 

The  news  he  brought  of  the  verdict  of  the 
coroner's  jury,  which  his  very  presence  cor 
roborated,  quieted  her  and  she  began  to  ask 
how  it  had  all  happened. 
Guerin  began  cautiously  to  explain  how  the 
engineer  had  died,  still  remembering  the 
lawyer's  advice,  but  before  he  had  gone  a 
dozen  words  the  poor  woman  wept  so  bit 
terly  that  he  was  obliged  to  discontinue  the 
sad  story. 

Then  came  the  corpse,  borne  by  a  few  faith 
ful  friends  —  some  of  the  Brotherhood  and 
some  of  the  railway  company  —  who  met 
thus  on  neutral  ground  and  in  the  awful 
presence  of  death  forgot  their  feud.  Not  an 
eye  was  dry  while  the  little  company  stood 

[  126  ]  r 


CHAPTER  XIII 


about  as  the  mother  and  boy  bent  over  the 
coffin  and  poured  out  their  grief,  and  the 
little  girl,  not  old  enough  to  understand,  but 
old  enough  to  weep,  clung  and  sobbed  at 
her  mother's  side. 

The  next  day  they  came  again  and  carried 
Cowels  away  and  buried  him  in  the  new 
and  thinly  settled  side  of  the  grave-yard, 
where  the  lots  were  not  too  high,  and  where 
for  nearly  four  years  their  second  son,  a 
baby  boy,  had  slept  alone.  Another  day 
came  and  the  men  who  had  mixed  their 
tears  at  the  engineer's  grave  passed  one 
another  without  a  nod  of  recognition,  and, 
figuratively  speaking,  stood  again  to  their 
respective  guns. 

One  man  had  been  greatly  missed  at  the 
funeral,  and  the  recollection  that  he  had 
been  greatly  wronged  by  the  dead  man  did 
not  excuse  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  widow. 
Dan  Moran  had  been  a  brother,  a  father, 
everything  to  her  husband  and  now  when 
he  was  needed  most,  he  came  not  at  all. 
[  127  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Death,  she  reasoned,  should  level  all  dif 
ferences  and  he  should  forgive  all  and  come 
to  her  and  the  children  in  their  distress.  At 
the  end  of  a  week  this  letter  came  : 

County  Jail,  -  1888. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Cowels  : 

Every  day  since  Georges  death  I  have  wanted  to 
write  you  to  assure  you  of  my  innocence  and  of  my 
sympathy  for  you  in  this  the  hour  of  your  sorrow. 
These  are  dreadful  times.  Be  brave,  and  believe  me 
Yourfriend, 

Dan  Moran. 

This  letter,  and  the  information  it  contained, 
was  as  great  a  surprise  to  Mrs.  Cowels  as 
the  news  of  Cowels's  death  had  been  to 
Moran.  She  began  at  the  beginning  and 
read  it  carefully  over  again,  as  women  al 
ways  do.  She  determined  to  go  at  once  to 
the  jail.  She  was  shrewd  enough  to  say 
"  Yes  "  when  asked  if  the  prisoner  were  re 
lated  in  any  way  to  her,  and  was  shortly  in 
the  presence  of  the  alleged  dynamiter.  She 
did  not  find  him  walking  the  floor  impa- 
[  128  ] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


tiently,  or  lying  idly  on  his  back  counting 
the  cracks  in  the  wall,  but  seated  upon  his 
narrow  bed  with  a  book  resting  on  his 
cocked-up  knees,  for,  unlike  most  railway 
employees,  Moran  was  a  great  reader. 
"  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Cowels,"  he 
said  in  his  easy,  quiet  way,  as  he  arose  and 
took  her  hand,  "  but  sorry  we  are  compelled 
to  meet  under  such  melancholy  circum 
stances." 

At  sight  of  their  old  friend  her  woman's 
heart  sent  forth  a  fresh  flood  of  tears,  and 
for  some  moments  they  stood  thus  with 
heads  bowed  in  silent  grief. 
"  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  offer  you  a  chair,"  said 
the  prisoner  after  she  had  raised  her  head 
and  dried  her  eyes.  "  This  only  chair  I 
have  is  wrecked,  but  if  you  don't  mind  the 
iron  couch  —  "  and  then  they  sat  down  side 
by  side  and  began  to  talk  over  the  sad 
events  of  the  past  week. 
"Your  presence  here  is  a  great  surprise," 
began  Moran,  "and  a  great  pleasure  as 
[  129  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


well,  for  it  leads  me  to  hope  that  you  be 
lieve  me  innocent." 

"  How  could  I  believe  you  otherwise,  for  I 
do  not  know  now  of  what  you  are  accused, 
nor  did  I  know,  until.  I  received  your  note, 
that  you  were  imprisoned." 
"But  the  papers  have  been  full  of  —  " 
"  Perhaps,"  she  said  interrupting  him,  "  but 
I  have  not  looked  at  a  paper  since  I  read 
of  the  death  of  George." 
Here  she  broke  down  again  and  sobbed  so 
that  the  guard  outside  the  cell  turned  his 
back;  and  the  old  engineer,  growing  ner 
vous,  a  thing  unusual  for  him,  decided  to 
scold  her. 

"You  must  brace  up  now,  Nora,  —  Mrs. 
Cowels,  and  close  your  sand  valve.  You  Ve 
got  a  heavy  load  and  a  bad  rail,  and  you 
must  n't  waste  water  in  this  way." 
"  Oh  !  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  it,  Dan, 
I  shall  die  —  I  don't  want  to  live  and  I  shall 
die." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort  —  women 
[  130  ] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


don't  die  so  easy  ;  thousands  of  others,  not 
half  as  brave  as  you  are,  have  made  the 
same  run,  hard  as  it  seems,  and  have  come 
in   on   time.    There  are  few   sorrows   that 
time  will  not  heal.  Engine-men  are  born  to 
die,  and  their  wives  to  weep  over  them  and 
live  on  —  you  will  not  die." 
"  But  I  —  I  shall  die,"  sobbed  the  woman. 
Before  he  could  reply  the  door  opened  and 
an   elderly   man,   plainly,  but   comfortably 
dressed,  stood  before  them. 
Moran  gave  his  hand  to  the  newcomer  in 
silence  and  it  was  taken  in  silence;  then, 
turning  to  the  veiled  figure  he  said  :  "  Mrs. 
Cowels,  this  is  our  master-mechanic." 
When  the  visitor  had  taken  her  hand  and 
assured  her  of  his  sympathy,  Moran  asked 
them   to   be   seated,   and    standing    before 
them  said  : 

"  Mrs.  Cowels  has  just  asked  me  why  I  am 
here,  and  I  was  at  the  point  of  replying 
when  you  came  in.  Now,  with  your  permis 
sion  I  will  tell  her,  for  I  am  afraid,  my 
[131  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


friend,  that  you  did  not  quite  understand  me 
that  day  in  court.  I  am  charged  with  tres 
passing  upon  the  property  of  the  Chica 
go,  Burlington,  and  Quincy  Railroad  Com 
pany,  inciting  a  riot  (although  there  was  no 
riot),  attempting  to  blow  up  Blackwings 
and  threatening  to  kill  George  Cowels." 
"  Oh  !  how  could  they  say  such  dreadful 
things  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Cowels,  "  and  I  suppose 
that  you  were  not  even  on  the  company's 
ground  !  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  was.  I  went  to  the  engine,  and 
quarrelled  with  George,  just  as  the  detec 
tive  said  I  did,  but  we  only  quarrelled  for 
a  moment  because  George  could  not  know 
why  I  came." 

"  But  you  did  not  threaten  to  kill  George  ?  " 
said  the  woman  excitedly. 
«  No." 

"  Tell  me,  Dan,"  said  the  master-mechanic, 
"  had  you  that  stick  of  dynamite  when  the 
detective  arrested  you  ?  Tell  us  truly,  for 
you  are  talking  to  friends." 
[  132  ] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


"  There  is  something  about  the  dynamite 
that  I  may  not  explain,  but  I  will  say  this 
to  you,  my  friends,  that  I  went  to  the  en 
gine,  not  to  kill  Cowels,  but  to  save  his 
life,  and  I  believe  I  did  save  it,  for  a  few 
hours  at  least." 

Mrs.  Cowels  looked  at  the  man,  who  still 
kept  his  seat  on  the  narrow  bed,  as  though 
she  wished  him  to  speak. 
"  Dan,"  he  began,  "  I  don't  believe  you  put 
that  dynamite  on  the  engine;  I  have  said 
so,  and  if  I  don't  prove  it  I  am  to  be  dis 
missed.  That  conclusion  was  reached  to-day 
at  a  meeting  of  the  directors  of  the  road. 
I  have  been  accused  of  sympathy  with  the 
strikers,  it  seems,  before,  and  now,  after  the 
statement  by  the  attorney  that  I  used  my 
influence  to  have  you  discharged  after  he 
had  made  out  a  clear  case  against  you,  I 
have  been  informed  by  the  general  manager 
that  I  will  be  expected  to  prove  your  inno 
cence  or  look  for  another  place. 
"I  have  been  with  the  Burlington  all  my 
[  133  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


life  and  don't  want  to  leave  them,  particu 
larly  in  this  way,  but  it  is  on  your  account, 
more  than  on  my  own,  that  I  have  come 
here  to-night  to  ask  you  to  tell  the  whole 
truth  about  this  matter  and  go  from  this 
place  a  free  man." 

"  To  do  that  I  must  become  an  informer, 
the  result  of  which  would  be  to  put  another 
in  my  place.  No,  I  can't  do  that  ;  I  Ve  noth 
ing  to  do  at  present  and  I  might  as  well  re 
main  here." 

"  And  let  your  old  friend  here  be  discharged, 
if  not  disgraced  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Cowels. 
"No,  that  must  not  be,"  said  Moran,  and 
he  was  then  silent  for  a  moment  as  if 
trying  to  work  out  a  scheme  to  prevent 
that  disaster  to  his  much-loved  superior. 
"You  must  let  me  think  it  over,"  he 
said,  presently.  "Let  me  think  it  over  to 
night." 

"And  let  the  guilty  one  escape,"  Mrs. 
Cowels  added. 

"  Some  people  seem  to  think,"  said  Moran, 
[  134  ] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


with  just  a  faint  attempt  at  a  smile,  "  that 
the  guilty  one  is  quite  secure." 
"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Dan,"  she  said,  "  you 
know  I  believe  you." 

"  And  you,  my  friend  ?  "  he  said  as  he  ex 
tended  his  hand  to  the  official. 
"  You  know  what  I  believe,"  said  the  visitor  ; 
"  and  now  good-night  —  I  shall  see  you  again 
soon." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Dan.  "  It  is  indeed  very 
good  of  you  to  cah1,  and  of  you,  too," 
he  added,  as  he  turned  to  his  fairer  visi 
tor.  "  I  shall  not  forget  your  kindness  to 
me,  and  only  hope  that  I  may  be  of  some 
help  to  you  in  some  way,  and  do  some 
thing  to  show  my  appreciation  of  this  visit 
and  of  your  friendship.  But,"  he  added, 
glancing  about  him,  "  one  can't  be  of  much 
use  to  his  friends  shut  up  in  a  hole  like 
this." 

"  You  can  do  me  a  great  favor,  even  while 
in  prison,"  she  said. 
"Only  say  what  it  is  and  I  shall  try." 
[  135  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"Tell  us  who  put  the  dynamite  on  Black- 

wings." 

"  I  shall  try,"  he  said,  "  only  let  me  have 

time  to  think  what  is  best  to  do." 

"What  is  right  is  what  is  best  to  do,"  said 

Mrs.  Cowels,  holding  out  her  hand  —  "  Good 

night." 

"  Good-night,"    said    the    prisoner,    "  come 

again  when  you   can,  both  of  you."  And 

the  two  visitors  passed  out  into  the  clear, 

cold  night,  and  when  the  prisoner  had  seen 

them  disappear  he  turned  to  his  little  friend, 

the  book. 


[  136  ] 


CHAPTER   FOURTEENTH 

JM.R.  SCOUPING  of  The  London  Times 
would  like  to  see  you  for  a  few  minutes," 
said  the  jailor. 

"  I  don't  care  to  see  any  newspaper  man," 
said  Moran,  closing  his  book. 
"  I  knew  that,"  said  the  jailor,  "  but  this 
man  is  a  personal  friend  of  mine  and  in  all 
the  world  there  is  not  his  equal  in  his  chosen 
profession,  and  if  you  will  see  him  just  for  a 
few  minutes  it  will  be  a  great  favor  to  me. 
I  feel  confident,  Dan,  that  he  can  be  of  ser 
vice  to  you — to  the  public  at  least — will 
you  see  him  ? " 

The  jailor  had  been  extremely  kind  to  the 
engineer  and  when  he  put  the  matter  as  a 
personal  request,  Moran  assented  at  once 
and  Mr.  Scouping  was  ushered  in.  He  was 
a  striking  figure  with  a  face  that  was  rather 
remarkable. 

"  Now,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ? "  asked 
the  visitor,  as  Moran  held  his  hand  and 
looked  him  full  in  the  face. 
[  137] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  Oh  !  "  said  the  prisoner,  motioning  the  re 
porter  to  a  chair  which  the  jailor  had  just 
brought  in,  "  I  was  thinking  what  a  waste 
of  physical  strength  it  was  for  you  to  spend 
your  time  pushing  a  pencil  over  a  sheet  of 
paper." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.  What  were  you  thinking 
about  ?" 

"The  trial  of  the  robbers  who  held  up  the 
Denver  Limited  at  Thorough-cut  some 
eight  or  ten  years  ago.  You  look  like  the 
man  who  gave  one  of  them  a  black  eye, 
and  knocked  him  from  the  engine,  brand 
ing  him  so  that  the  detectives  could  catch 
him." 

Moran  smiled.  He  had  been  thinking  on 
precisely  the  same  subject,  but,  being  mod 
est,  he  did  not  care  to  open  a  discussion  of 
a  story  of  which  he  was  the  long-forgotten 
hero.  "  It  strikes  me,"  said  Moran,  "  as  rather 
extraordinary  that  we  should  both  recall  the 
scene  at  the  same  time." 
[  138  ] 


CHAPTER  XIV 


"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  reporter.  "  The  very 
fact  that  one  of  us  thought  of  it  at  the 
moment  when  our  hands  and  eyes  met 
would  cause  the  other  to  remember." 
"  Perhaps  you  reported  the  case  for  your 
paper,  that  we  saw  each  other  from  day  to 
day  during  the  long  trial,  and  that  I  remem 
bered  your  face  faintly,  as  you  remembered 
mine.  Wouldn't  that  be  a  better  explana 
tion?" 

"  No,"  said  the  journalist  cheerfully.  "  I 
must  decline  to  yield  to  your  argument, 
and  stick  to  my  decision.  What  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about,  Mr.  Moran,  is  not  your 
own  case,  save  as  it  may  please  you,  but 
about  the  mysterious  death  of  Engineer 
Cowels." 

"  I  know  less  about  that,  perhaps,  than  any 
man  living,"  said  Moran  frankly. 
"  But  you  know  the  fireman's  story  ?  " 
"No." 

"  Well,  he  claims  that  they  were  running 

at  a  maddening  rate  of  speed,  that  he  and 

[  139  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  engineer  had  quarrelled  as  to  their  rel 

ative   positions    hi    the   estimation   of    the 

public  hi  general,  the  strikers  in  particular. 

Cowels   threw   a   hammer   at  the  fireman, 

whereupon  Guerin,  as  he  claims,  caught  the 

man  by  the  left  arm  and  by  the  back  of  the 

neck  and  shoved  his  head  out  of  the  win 

dow.   The    engineer   resisted,   but   Guerin, 

who  is  something  of  an  athlete,  held  him 

down  and  in  a  few  moments  the  man  col 

lapsed." 

"  How  fast  were  they  going  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  is  a  question  to  be  settled  by 

experts.  How  fast  will  Blackwings  go  with 

four  cars  empty  ?  " 

"  Ninety  miles  an  hour." 

"  How  fast  would  she  go,  working  '  wide 

open  hi  the  first  notch,'  as  you  people  say, 

down  Zero  Hill?" 

"  She  would  go  hi  the  ditch  —  she  could 

hardly  be  expected  to  hold  the  rail  for  more 

than  two  minutes." 

"  But  she  did  hold  it." 

[  140  ] 


CHAPTER  XIV 


"  I    don't  believe  it,"  said  the  old  driver  ; 

"but  if  she   did,  she  must  have   made  a 

hundred  miles  an  hour,  and  in  that  case  the 

mystery  of  Cowels's   death  is   solved  —  he 

was  drowned." 

"  But  his  clothes  were  not  wet,  and  he  was 

still    in    the   window  when    they    reached 

Galesburg." 

"  I  do  not  mean,"  said  Moran,  "  that  he  was 

drowned  in  the  engine-tank,  but  in  the  cab 

window  —  in  the  air." 

"  That  sounds  absurd." 

"  Try  it,"  said  the  prisoner.  "  Get  aboard  of 

Blackwings,  strike  the  summit  at  Zero  Hill 

with  her  lever  hooked  back  and  her  throttle 

wide  open,  let  a  strong  man  hold  your  head 

out  at  the  window,  and  if  she  hangs  to  the 

rail  your  successor  will  have  the  rare  oppor 

tunity  of  writing  you  up." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  seriously  ?  " 

"  I  do.  If  what  you  tell  me  is  true,  there 

can  be  no  shade  of  doubt  as  to  the  cause  of 

Cowels's  death." 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  I  believe,"  said  the  reporter,  "  that  you 
predicted  his  death,  or  that  the  train  would 
go  in  the  ditch,  did  you  not  ?  " 
"No." 

"  I  was  not  present  at  the  examination,  but 
it  occurs  to  me  that  the  man  who  claimed 
to  be  a  detective,  and  who  made  the  arrest, 
swore  that  you  had  made  such  a  prediction." 
"  Perhaps,"  said  Moran.  "  The  truth  is  when 
that  fellow  was  giving  his  testimony  I  was 
ignorant  of  Cowels's  death,  upon  whose  evi 
dence  I  hoped  to  prove  that  the  fellow  was 
lying  wilfully,  or  that  he  had  misunderstood 
me,  and  later,  I  was  so  shocked  and  sur 
prised  at  the  news  of  my  old  fireman's  death 
that  I  forgot  to  make  the  proper  explana 
tion  to  the  magistrate." 
"  Why  not  make  that  explanation  now  ? 
These  are  trying  times  and  men  are  not 
expected  to  be  as  guarded  in  their  action  as 
in  times  of  peace." 

"  If  you  hope  to  learn  from  me  that  I  had 
anything  to  do  with  Cowels's  death,  or  with 


CHAPTER  XIV 


the  placing  of  the  dynamite  upon  the  loco 
motive,  I  am  afraid  you  are  wasting  your 
time.  Suppose  you  are  an  army  officer,  the 
possessor  of  a  splendid  horse  —  one  that  has 
carried  you  through  hundreds  of  battles, 
but  has  finally  been  captured  by  the  enemy. 
You  are  fighting  to  regain  possession  of  the 
animal  with  the  chances  of  success  and  fail 
ure  about  equally  divided,  but  you  have  an 
opportunity,  during  the  battle,  to  slay  this 
horse,  thereby  removing  the  remotest  chance 
of  ever  having  it  for  yourself  again,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  wickedness  of  the  act,  —  would 
you  do  it  ?  " 
"  I  should  say  not." 

"  And  yet,  I  venture  to  say,"  said  the  pris 
oner,  "that  there  is  no  love  for  a  living 
thing  that  is  not  human,  to  equal  the  love 
of  a  locomotive  engineer  for  his  engine.  To 
say  that  he  would  wilfully  and  maliciously 
wreck  and  ruin  the  splendid  steed  of  steel 
that  had  carried  him  safely  through  sun  and 
storm  is  utterly  absurd." 
[  143  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  But  what  was  it,  Mr.  Moran,  that  you 
said  about  the  train  going  in  the  ditch  ?  " 
"I  have  a  little  motto  of  my  own,"  said 
the  engineer,  with  his  quiet  smile,  "which 
makes  the  delay  of  an  express  train  inex 
cusable,  and  I  was  repeating  it  to  George, 
as  I  had  done  scores  of  times  before.  It  is 
that  there  are  only  two  places  for  an  ex 
press  tram;  she  should  either  be  on  time 
or  in  the  ditch.  It  may  have  been  rather 
reckless  advice  to  a  new  runner,  but  I  was 
feeling  a  mite  reckless  myself;  but,  above 
all  the  grief  and  disappointments  (for  the 
disgrace  of  my  fireman's  downfall  was  in  a 
measure  mine)  arose  the  desire  that  Black- 
wings  should  not  be  disgraced  ;  such  is  the 
love  of  the  engineer  for  his  engine." 
The  old  engineer  had  shown  much  feeling, 
more  than  was  usual  for  him  to  display, 
while  talking  about  his  engine,  and  the  re 
porter  was  impressed  very  favorably.  "  This 
has  been  most  interesting  to  me,"  said  the 
journalist;  "and  now  I  must  leave  you  to 
[  144  ] 


CHAPTER  XIV 


your  book,  or  to  your  bed,"  and  then  the 
two  men  shook  hands  again  and  parted. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  a  closed  car 
riage  stopped  at  the  general  office  of  the 
Burlington  Company,  and  the  man  who 
had  been  representing  The  London  Times 
stepped  out. 

The  Philosopher,  who  was  still  on  duty, 
touched  his  cap  and  led  the  visitor  to  the 
private  office  of  the  general  manager. 
"  By  Jove,  Watchem,"  said  the  railway 
man,  advancing  to  meet  his  visitor,  "  I  had 
nearly  given  you  up  —  what  success  ?  " 
"  Well,"  said  the  great  detective,  removing 
his  heavy  coat,  "  I  have  had  a  talk  with 
Moran.  Why,  I  know  that  fellow  ;  he  is  the 
hero  of  the  celebrated  Thorough-cut  train 
robbery,  and  he  ought  to  be  wearing  a  medal 
instead  of  irons." 

"  What  !  for  attempting  to  blow  up  an  en 
gine  ?  "  asked  the  general  manager. 
"  He  never  did  it,"  said  the  dark  man  posi- 
[  145  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


lively.  "  He  may  know  who  did  do  it,  but 
he  will  not  tell,  and  he  ought  to  be  dis 
charged." 

"  He  will  never  be  until  he  is  proved  inno 
cent,"  said  the  railroad  man. 
"  One  of  the  conditions,"  began  the  detec 
tive  deliberately,  "  upon  which  I  took  charge 
of  this  business  was  that  I  should  have  ab 
solute  control  of  all  criminal  matters  and  I 
am  going  to  ask  you  to  instruct  the  prose 
cuting  attorney's  office  to  bring  this  man 
before  Judge  Meyer  to-morrow  morning 
and  ask  that  he  be  discharged." 
"  The  prosecuting  attorney  will  never  con 
sent,"  said  the  general  manager.  "  He  be 
lieves  the  man  guilty." 

"  And  what  do  I  care  for  his  opinion  or  his 
prejudice  ?  What  does  it  matter  to  the  aver 
age  attorney  whether  he  convicts  or  acquits, 
so  long  as  his  side  wins  ?  Before  we  proceed 
further  with  this  discussion,  I  want  it  dis 
tinctly  understood  that  Dan  Moran  shall  be 
released  at  once.  The  only  spark  of  pleasure 
[  146  ] 


CHAPTER  XIV 


that  comes  into  the  life  of  an  honest  detec 
tive,  to  relieve  the  endless  monotony  of 
punishing  the  wicked,  is  the  pleasure  of 
freeing  those  wrongfully  accused.  Dan  Mo- 
ran  is  innocent  ;  release  him  and  I  will  be 
personally  responsible  for  him  and  will  agree 
to  produce  him  within  twenty-four  hours  at 
any  time  when  he  may  be  wanted." 
The  general  manager  was  still  inclined  to 
hold  his  ground,  but  upon  being  assured 
that  the  Watchem  detective  agency  would 
throw  the  whole  business  over  unless  the 
demands  of  the  chief  were  acceded  to,  he 
yielded,  and  after  a  brief  conference  the  two 
men  descended,  the  Philosopher  closed  the 
offices  and  went  his  way. 


[147] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEENTH 


of  criminals,  deputies  and  strikers 
were  rounded  up  for  a  hearing  before  Judge 
Meyer.  So  great  was  the  crowd  of  defend 
ants  that  little  room  was  left  for  the  curi 
ous.  The  first  man  called  was  a  laborer,  a 
freight  handler,  whose  occupation  had  gone 
when  the  company  ceased  to  handle  freight. 
The  charge  against  him  was  a  peculiar  one. 
His  neighbor,  a  driver  for  one  of  the  brew 
eries,  owned  a  cow,  which,  although  she 
gave  an  abundance  of  milk  at  night,  had 
ceased  almost  entirely  to  produce  at  the 
morning  milking.  The  German  continued 
to  feed  her  and  she  waxed  fat,  but  there 
was  no  improvement,  and  finally  it  was 
decided  that  the  cow  should  be  watched. 
About  four  A.  M.  on  the  following  morning 
a  small  man  came  and  leaned  a  ladder 
against  the  high  fence  between  the  driver's 
back-yard,  and  that  of  the  laborer.  Then  the 
small  man  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  fence, 
balanced  himself  carefully,  hauled  the  ladder 
[  148  ] 


CHAPTER  XV 


up  and  slid  it  down  in  the  Dutchman's  lot. 
All  this  was  suspicious,  but  what  the  driver 
wanted  was  positive  proof,  so  he  choked  his 
dog  and  remained  quiet  until  the  man  had 
milked  the  cow  and  started  for  the  fence. 
Now  the  bull-dog,  being  freed  from  his  mas 
ter's  grasp,  coupled  into  the  climber's  caboose 
and  hauled  him  back  down  the  ladder.  It 
was  found  upon  examination  that  a  rubber 
hot-water  bag,  well  filled  with  warm  milk, 
was  dangling  from  a  strap  that  encircled  the 
man's  shoulders,  shot-pouch  fashion. 
Upon  being  charged,  the  man  pleaded 
guilty.  At  first,  he  said,  he  had  only  taken 
enough  milk  for  the  baby,  who  had  been 
without  milk  for  thirty-six  hours.  The 
thought  of  stealing  had  not  entered  his 
mind  until  near  morning  of  the  second 
night  of  the  baby's  fast.  They  had  been 
up  with  the  starving  child  all  night,  and 
just  before  day  he  had  gone  into  the  back 
yard  to  get  some  fuel  to  build  a  fire,  when 
he  heard  his  neighbor's  cow  tramping  about 
[  149  ] 


«O§  SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


in  the  barn  lot,  and  instantly  it  occurred  to 
him  that  there  was  milk  for  the  baby  ;  that 
if  he  could  procure  only  a  teacupful,  it 
might  save  the  child's  life.  He  secured  a 
ladder  and  went  over  the  fence,  but  being 
dreadfully  afraid  he  had  taken  barely  enough 
milk  to  keep  the  baby  during  the  day  and 
that  night  they  were  obliged  to  walk  the 
floor  again.  It  was  only  a  little  past  mid 
night  when  he  went  over  the  fence  for  the 
second  time.  Upon  this  occasion  he  took 
more  milk,  so  that  he  was  not  obliged  to 
return  on  the  following  night,  but  another 
day  brought  the  same  condition  of  affairs 
and  over  the  fence  he  went,  and  he  contin 
ued  to  go  every  night,  and  the  baby  began 
to  thrive  as  it  had  not  done  in  all  its  life. 
Finally  the  food  supply  began  to  dwindle, 
he  was  idle,  and  his  wife  was  unable  to  do 
hard  work;  they  had  other  small  children 
who  now  began  to  cry  for  milk,  and  the 
father's  heart  ached  for  them  and  he  went 
over  the  fence  one  night  prepared  to  bring 
[  150  ] 


CHAPTER  XV 


all  he  could  get.  That  day  all  the  children 
had  milk,  but  it  was  soon  gone  and  then 
came  the  friendly  night  and  the  perform 
ance  at  the  back  fence  was  repeated. 
Emboldened  by  success  the  man  had  come 
to  regard  it  as  a  part  of  his  daily  or  nightly 
duty  to  milk  his  neighbor's  cow,  but  alas  ! 
for  the  wrong-doer  there  comes  a  day  of 
reckoning,  and  it  had  come  at  last  to  the 
freight  handler.  The  freight  agent  who  was 
called  as  a  witness  testified  as  to  the  good 
character  of  the  man  previously,  but  he  was 
a  thief.  Put  to  the  test  it  had  been  proven 
that  he  would  steal  from  his  neighbor  sim 
ply  to  keep  his  baby  from  starving,  so  he 
went  to  the  work-house,  his  family  went  to 
the  poor-house,  and  the  strike  went  on. 
"  If  you  were  to  ask  who  is  responsible  for 
this  strike,"  said  the  philosophic  tramp  to 
Patsy,  "which  has  left  in  its  wake  only 
waste,  want,  misery,  and  even  murder,  the 
strikers  would  answer  *  the  company  '  ;  the 
company,  *  the  strikers  '  ;  and  if  Congress 
[151  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


came  in  a  private  car  to  investigate,  the 
men  on  either  side  would  hide  behind  one 
another,  like  cattle  in  a  storm,  and  the 
guilty  would  escape.  The  law  intends  to 
punish,  but  the  law  finds  it  so  hard  to  lo 
cate  the  real  criminals  in  a  great  soulless 
corporation,  or  in  a  conglomeration  of  or 
ganizations  whose  aggregate  membership 
reaches  into  the  hundreds  of  thousands, 
that  the  blind  goddess  grows  weary,  grop 
ing  hi  the  dark,  and  finally  falls  asleep  with 
the  cry  of  starving  children  still  ringing  in 
her  ears." 

Now  an  officer  brought  engineer  Dan  Mo- 
ran,  the  alleged  dynamiter,  into  court  for 
a  special  hearing.  He  wore  no  manacles, 
but  stood  erect  in  the  awful  presence  of  the 
judge,  unfettered  and  unafraid. 
Mr.  Alexander,  the  lawyer  for  the  strikers, 
having  had  a  hint  from  Billy  Watchem,  the 
detective,  asked  that  the  prisoner  be  dis 
charged,  but  the  young  man  who  had  been 
sent  down  from  the  office  of  the  prosecuting 
[  152  ] 


CHAPTER  XV 


attorney,  being  behind  the  procession,  pro 
tested  vigorously.  In  the  midst  of  a  burning 
argument,  in  which  the  old  engineer  was 
unmercifully  abused,  the  youthful  attorney 
was  interrupted  to  receive  a  message  from 
the  general  manager  of  the  Burlington 
route.  Pausing  only  long  enough  to  read 
the  signature,  the  orator  continued  to  pour 
his  argument  into  the  court  until  a  second 
messenger  arrived  with  a  note  from  his 
chief.  It  was  brief  and  he  read  it  :  "  Let  go  ; 
the  house  is  falling  in  on  you  "  ;  and  he  let 
go.  It  was  a  long,  hard  fall,  so  he  thought  he 
would  drop  a  little  at  a  time.  The  court  was 
surprised  to  see  the  attorney  stop  short  in 
what  he  doubtless  considered  the  effort  of  his 
life,  and  ask  that  the  prisoner  be  released  on 
bail.  Now  the  prosecuting  attorney  glanced 
at  Mr.  Alexander,  but  that  gentleman  was 
looking  the  other  way.  "  Does  that  proposi 
tion  meet  with  the  approval  of  the  eminent 
counsel  on  the  other  side  ?  " 
"  No,"  said  the  other  side. 
[  153  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  Then  will  you  take  the  trouble  to  make 
your  wishes  known  to  the  court  ?  " 
"No,  you  will  do  that  for  me,"  said  the 
eminent  counsel,  with  a  coolness  that  was  ex 
asperating.  "  It  would  be  unsafe  to  shut  off 
such  a  flow  of  eloquence  all  at  once.  Ask  the 
court,  please,  to  discharge  the  prisoner." 
"Never,"  said  the  young  lawyer,  growing 
red  to  the  roots  of  his  perfectly  parted  hah*. 
The  counsel  for  the  defence  reached  over 
the  table  and  flipped  the  last  message  to 
ward  the  lawyer,  at  the  same  time  advising 
the  young  man  to  read  it  again.  Then  the 
young  man  coughed,  the  old  lawyer  laughed, 
the  judge  fidgeted  on  his  bench,  but  he 
caught  the  prayer  of  the  youthful  attorney, 
it  was  answered,  and  Dan  Moran  received 
his  freedom. 

"  Do  you  observe  how  the  law  operates  ?  " 
asked  the  Philosopher,  who  had  been  the 
bearer  of  the  message  from  the  general 
manager,  of  Patsy  Daly  as  they  were  leav 
ing  the  court. 

[  154  ] 


CHAPTER  XV 


"  I  must  confess,"  said  Patsy,  "  that  I  am 
utterly  unable  to  understand  these  things. 
Here  is  a  lawyer  abusing  a  man  —  an  honest 
man  at  that  —  unmercifully,  and  all  of  a  sud 
den  he  asks  the  court  to  discharge  the  pris 
oner.  It  's  beyond  me." 
"  But  the  side  play  !  Did  n't  you  get  on  to 
the  message  that  blackguard  received  ?  He 
had  a  hunch  from  the  prosecuting  attorney 
who  had  been  hunched  by  the  general  man 
ager,  who,  as  I  happened  to  know,  was  se 
verely,  but  very  successfully  hunched  by 
Billy  Watchem,  to  the  effect  that  this  man 
was  innocent  and  must  be  released.  It  was 
the  shadow-hand  of  old  '  Never  Sleep,'  that 
did  the  business  and  set  an  innocent  man 
free,  and  hereafter,  when  I  cuss  a  copper 
1  11  say  a  little  prayer  for  this  man  whose 
good  deeds  are  all  done  in  the  dark,  and 
therefore  covered  up." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Patsy,  "  I  should  never 
have  been  able  to  work  it  out  myself." 
"Well,  it  is  not  all  worked  out  yet,"  said 
[  155  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  Philosopher,  "and  will  not  be  until  we 
come  up  for  a  final  hearing,  in  a  court  that 
is  infallible  and  unfoolable  ;  and  what  a  lot 
of  surprises  are  in  store  for  some  people.  It 
is  not  good  to  judge,  and  yet  I  can't  help 
picturing  it  all  to  myself.  I  see  a  sleek  old 
sinner,  who  has  gone  through  this  life  per 
fectly  satisfied  with  himself,  edging  his  way 
in  and  sidling  over  where  the  sheep  are. 
Then  in  comes  this  poor  devil  who  went  to 
jail  this  morning  —  that  was  his  first  trip, 
but  the  road  is  easy  when  you  have  been 
over  it  once  —  and  he,  having  been  herding 
all  along  with  the  goats,  naturally  wanders 
over  that  way.  Then  at  the  last  moment  I 
see  the  Good  Shepherd  shooing  the  sleek 
old  buck  over  where  the  goats  are  and 
bringing  the  milk-thief  back  with  him,  and 
I  see  the  look  of  surprise  on  the  old  gentle 
man's  face  as  he  drops  down  the  *  goat- 
chute.'" 


[  156  ] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEENTH 

AN  time  people  grew  tired  of  talking  and 
reading  about  the  strike,  and  more  than  one 
man  wished  it  might  end.  The  strikers 
wished  it  too,  for  hundreds  of  them  were 
at  the  point  of  starvation.  The  police  courts 
were  constantly  crowded,  and  often  over 
flowed  and  filled  the  morgue.  Misery,  dis 
appointment,  want,  and  hunger  made  men 
commit  crimes  the  very  thought  of  which 
would  have  caused  them  to  shudder  a  year 
ago.  One  day  a  desolate  looking  striker  was 
warming  his  feet  in  a  cheap  saloon  when  a 
well-dressed  stranger  came  and  sat  near 
him  and  asked  the  cause  of  his  melancholia. 
"  I  'm  a  striker,"  said  the  man  ;  "  and  I  have 
had  no  breakfast.  More  than  that,  my  wife 
is  hungry  at  home  and  she  is  sick,  too.  She 's 
been  sick  ever  since  we  buried  the  baby, 
three  weeks  ago.  All  day  yesterday  I  begged 
for  work,  but  there  was  nothing  for  me  to 
do.  To-day  I  have  begged  for  money  to  buy 
medicine  and  food  for  her,  but  I  have  re-; 
[  157  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


ceived  nothing,  and  now  my  only  hope  is 
that  she  may  be  dead  when  I  go  home  to 
night,  empty-handed  and  hungry." 
The  stranger  drew  his  chair  yet  nearer  to 
that  of  the  miserable  man  and  asked  in  a 
low  tone  why  he  did  not  steal. 
"  I  don't  know  how,"  said  the  striker,  look 
ing  his  questioner  in  the  face.  "  I  have  never 
stolen  anything  and  I  should  be  caught  at 
my  first  attempt.  If  not,  it  would  only  be 
a  question  of  time,  and  if  I  must  become  a 
thief  to  live  we  might  as  well  all  die  and 
have  done  with  it.  It'll  be  easier  anyway 
after  she  's  gone,  and  that  won't  be  long  ; 
she  don't  want  to  live.  Away  in  the  dead 
of  night  she  wakes  me  praying  for  death. 
And  she  used  to  be  about  the  happiest 
woman  in  the  world,  and  one  of  the  best, 
but  when  a  mother  sits  and  sees  her  baby 
starve  and  die,  it  is  apt  to  harden  her  heart 
against  the  people  who  have  been  the  cause 
of  it  all.  I  think  she  has  almost  ceased  to 
care  for  me,  for  of  course  she  blames  me 
[  158  ] 


CHAPTER  XVI 


for  going  out  with  the  strikers,  but  how  's 
a  man  to  know  what  to  do  ?  If  I  could 
raise  the  price  I  think  I  'd  take  a  couple  of 
doses  of  poison  home  with  me  and  put  an 
end  to  our  misery.  She  'd  take  it  in  a  holy 
minute." 

"  Don't  do  that,"  said  the  stranger,  dabbing 
a  silk  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  one  after  the 
other.  "  And  don't  steal,  for  if  you  do  once 
you  will  steal  again,  and  by  and  by  you  11 
get  bolder  and  do  worse.  I  Ve  heard  men 
tell  how  they  had  begun  by  lifting  a  dicer 
in  front  of  a  clothing  store,  or  stealing  a 
loaf  of  bread,  and  ended  by  committing 
murder.  They  can't  break  this  way  always 
—  brace  up." 

The  switchman  went  over  to  the  bar  where 
a  couple  of  non-union  men  were  shaking 
dice  for  the  drinks.  He  recognized  one  of 
them  as  the  man  who  had  taken  his  place 
in  the  yards,  but  he  scarcely  blamed  him 
now.  Perhaps  the  fellow  had  been  hungry, 
and  the  striker  knew  too  well  what  that 
[  159  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


meant.  Presently,  the  switchman  went  back 
to  the  stove  and  began  to  button  his  thin 
coat  up  about  his  throat. 
"  I  'm  dead  broke  myself,"  said  the  well- 
dressed  stranger,  "  but  I  'm  going  to  help 
you  if  you  11  let  me." 

As  the  striker  stared  at  the  stranger  the 
man  took  off  a  sixty-dollar  overcoat  and 
hung  it  over  the  switchman's  arm.  "Take 
it,"  he  said,  "it's  bran  new;  I  just  got  it 
from  the  tailor  this  morning.  Go  out  and 
sell  it  and  bring  the  money  to  me  and  1  11 
help  you." 

When  the  striker  had  been  gone  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  the  well-dressed  man  strolled  up 
to  the  bar  and  ordered  a  cocktail.  Fifteen 
minutes  later  he  took  another  drink  and 
went  out  in  front  of  the  saloon.  It  was 
cold  outside  and  after  looking  anxiously 
up  and  down  the  street  the  philanthropist 
reentered  the  beer-shop  and  warmed  him 
self  by  the  big  stove.  At  the  end  of  an 
hour  he  ordered  another  dose  of  nerve  food 
[  160  ] 


CHAPTER  XVI 


and  sat  down  to  think.  It  began  to  dawn 
upon  him  that  he  had  been  "had,"  as  the 
English  say.  Perhaps  this  fellow  was  an 
impostor,  a  professional  crook  from  New 
York,  and  he  would  sell  the  overcoat  and 
have  riotous  pastime  upon  the  proceeds. 
"  The  wife  and  baby  story  was  a  rank  fake 
—  I  'm  a  marine,"  said  the  well-dressed  man 
taking  another  drink.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  task  of  helping  the  needy  was  a 
thankless  one,  and  he  wished  he  had  the 
overcoat  back  again.  He  had  been  waiting 
nearly  two  hours  when  the  switchman 
came  in.  "  I  had  a  hard  time  finding  a  pur 
chaser,"  explained  the  striker,  "and  finally 
when  I  did  sell  it  I  could  only  get  twelve 
dollars  and  they  made  me  give  my  name 
and  tell  how  I  came  to  have  such  a  coat. 
I  suppose  they  thought  I  had  stolen  it  and 
I  dare  say  I  looked  guilty  for  it  is  so  em 
barrassing  to  try  to  sell  something  that 
really  does  n't  belong  to  you,  and  to  feel 
yourself  suspected  of  having  stolen  it." 
[161  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  And  you  told  them  that  a  gentleman  had 
given  the  coat  to  you  to  sell  because  he  was 
sorry  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  gave  them  a  description  of  you  and 
told  them  the  place." 

"  That  was  right,"  said  the  gentleman,  glan 
cing  toward  the  door.  "  Here  are  two  dol 
lars  ;  come  back  here  to-morrow  and  I  '11 
have  something  more  for  you  —  good-by." 
And  the  philanthropist  passed  out  by  a  side 
door  which  opened  on  an  alley. 
The  striker  gripped  the  two-dollar  bill  hard 
in  his  hand  and  started  for  the  front  door. 
All  thought  of  hunger  had  left  him  now, 
and  he  was  thinking  only  of  his  starving 
wife,  and  wondering  what  would  be  best 
for  her  to  eat.  Two  or  three  men  in  citizens' 
dress,  accompanied  by  a  policeman,  were 
coming  in  just  as  he  was  going  out,  but  he 
was  looking  at  the  money  and  did  not  no 
tice  them.  "  There  goes  the  thief,"  said  one 
of  the  men,  and  an  officer  laid  a  heavy  hand 
on  the  striker's  shoulder.  The  man  looked 
[  162  ] 


CHAPTER  XVI 


up  into  the  officer's  face  with  amazement, 
and  asked  what  the  matter  was. 
"Did  you  sell  an  overcoat  to  this  gentle 
man  a  little  while  ago  ?  "  asked  the  police 
man. 

"Yes,"  said  the  striker  glancing  down  at 
the  two  doUars  he  still  held  in  his  hand. 
"  Und  yer  sthold  dot  coats  fum  mine  vindo'," 
said  a  stout  man  shoving  his  fist  under  the 
switchman's  nose. 

"A  gentleman  gave  me  the  coat  in  this 
saloon,"  urged  the  striker.  "Why,  he  was 
here  a  moment  ago." 

"  Ah  !  dot  's  too  tin,"  laughed  the  tailor, 
"tak'  'im  avay,  Meester  Bleasman,  tak'  'im 
avay,"  and  the  miserable  man  was  hurried 
away  to  prison. 

That  night  while  the  switchman  sat  in  a 
dark  cell  his  young  wife  lay  dying  of  cold 
and  hunger  in  a  fireless  room,  and  when  an 
enterprising  detective  came  to  search  the 
house  for  stolen  goods  on  the  following 
morning,  he  found  her  there  stiff  and  cold. 
L  163  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Of  course  no  one  was  to  blame  in  particu 
lar,  unless  it  was  the  well-dressed  gentleman 
who  had  "  helped  "  the  striker,  for  no  one, 
in  particular,  was  responsible  for  the  strike. 
It  may  have  been  the  company  and  it  may 
have  been  the  brotherhood,  or  both,  but  you 
can't  put  a  railroad  company  or  a  brother 
hood  in  jail. 


[  164  ] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEENTH 

J\I_R.  WATCHEM'S  plumber,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  had  the  good  taste  to  leave 
his  modest  lodgings  after  the  downfall  and 
death  of  his  landlord,  and  now  the  widow 
was  left  alone  with  her  two  children.  She 
was  a  gentle  soul,  who  had  always  been 
esteemed  by  her  neighbors,  but  since  her 
husband's  desertion  to  the  enemy,  she  had 
been  shamefully  slighted.  One  would  have 
thought  that  her  present  helpless  condition 
would  have  shielded  her  from  such  slights, 
but  it  did  not. 

A  few  dollars  still  remained  from  the  last 
rent  money  received  from  the  plumber,  who 
always  paid  hi  advance,  and  upon  this  she 
lived  for  a  week  or  more  after  the  death  of 
her  husband.  She  wondered  how  long  it 
would  be  before  the  Benevolent  Building 
Association  would  sell  the  house,  and  then 
how  long  before  they  would  put  her  and  the 
children  into  the  street.  Upon  visiting  the 
undertaker  she  was  surprised  to  learn  that 
[  165  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


all  the  expenses  of  her  husband's  funeral 
had  been  paid.  It  must  have  been  done  by 
the  company,  since,  having  left  the  Brother 
hood,  her  husband  could  have  had  no  claim 
upon  the  organization.  Well,  she  was  glad 
it  was  paid,  for  the  road  that  led  into  the 
future  was  rough  and  uncertain. 
One  evening,  when  the  baby  had  gone  to 
sleep  and  the  lone  widow  was  striving  to 
entertain  little  Bennie,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  hide  her  tears  from  him,  for  he 
had  been  asking  strange  questions  about 
his  father's  death,  the  beU  rang  and  two  of 
the  neighbors  came  in.  They  were  striking 
firemen  and  she  knew  them  well.  One  of 
the  men  handed  her  a  large  envelope  with 
an  enormous  seal  upon  it.  She  opened  the 
letter  and  found  a  note  addressed  to  her  and 
read  it  : 

Dear  Mrs.  Cowels  : 

Although  your  husband  had  deserted  us,  he  had  not 

been  expelled,  but  was  still  a  member  in  good  standing 

at  the  moment  of  his  death,  and  therefore  legally  en- 

[  166  ] 


CHAPTER  XVII 


titled  to  the  benefits  of  the  order.  For  your  sake  I  am 
glad  that  it  is  so,  and  I  take  pleasure  in  handing  you 
a  cheque  for  two  thousand  dollars,  the  amount  of  his 
insurance,  less  the  amount  paid  by  the  local  lodge  for 
funeral  expenses. 

Very  truly  yours, 

EUGENE  V.  DEBSON, 
Grand  Secretary  and  Treasurer. 

She  thanked  them  as  well  as  she  could  and 
the  men  tried  to  say  it  was  all  right,  but 
they  were  awkward  and  embarrassed  and 
after  a  few  commonplace  remarks  with 
drew. 

Mrs.  Cowels  sat  for  a  long  while  looking 
at  the  cheque,  turning  it  over  and  reading 
the  figures  aloud  to  Bennie  and  explaining 
to  him  what  an  enormous  amount  of  money 
it  was.  And  what  a  load  had  thus  been 
lifted  from  the  slender  shoulders  of  this 
lone  woman  !  Now  she  could  pay  off  the 
mortgage  and  have  nearly  fourteen  hundred 
dollars  left.  It  seemed  to  her  that  that 
amount  ought  to  keep  them  almost  for  a 
[  167  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


lifetime.  This  relief,  coming  so  unexpect 
edly,  had  made  her  forget  for  the  moment 
her  great  sorrow.  She  even  smiled  when 
telling  Bennie  how  very  rich  they  were, 
but  when  the  boy  looked  up,  with  tears 
swimming  in  his  big,  blue  eyes,  and  said, 
through  the  sobs  that  almost  choked  him  : 
"But  I  'druther  have  papa  back  again,"  it 
pierced  her  heart  and  made  the  old  wound 
bleed  anew. 

Patsy  Daly  and  his  friend,  the  Philosopher, 
were  at  that  moment  approaching  the 
Cowels's  house  where  they  lodged  —  they 
were  room-mates  now.  They  had  seen  the 
two  men  leaving  the  house,  and  having 
caught  sight  of  the  lonely  woman  and  her 
child,  stood  looking  beneath  the  window 
shade  upon  the  pathetic  scene.  When  they 
saw  the  official  envelope,  with  the  big,  red 
seal,  they  readily  guessed  the  errand  of  the 
men,  for  they  knew  the  rules  and  ways  of 
the  Brotherhood,  and  that  the  dead  engi 
neer's  family  was  entitled  to  the  insurance 
[  168  ] 


CHAPTER  XVII 


upon  his  life.  They  saw  the  little  mother 
smiling  upon  her  boy,  saw  him  turn  a  tear 
ful  face  up  to  hers,  and  the  change  that 
came,  and  the  look  of  anguish  upon  the  un 
happy  woman's  face  touched  them  deeply. 
"  O  God  !  "  said  the  Philosopher,  laying  a 
hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  his  friend,  "if 
it  be  true  that  we,  who  are  so  wicked,  must 
suffer  for  our  sins,  it  is  pleasant  to  feel  that 
these  martyrs  —  the  millions  of  mothers 
whose  hearts  are  torn  in  this  world  —  will 
have  a  pleasant  place  in  the  world  to  come." 


[  169  ] 


CHAPTER   EIGHTEENTH 

JM.R.  WATCHEM,  chief  of  the  famous 
Watchem  detective  agency,  was  pacing  his 
private  office.  He  was  a  heavy  man  with 
heavy  features  and  a  heavy,  dark  mustache, 
at  which  he  tugged  vigorously  as  he  walked. 
In  his  left  hand  he  carried  a  dozen  or  more 
sheets  of  closely  written  note  paper.  Pres 
ently  the  door  opened,  and  a  small  man, 
slightly  stooped,  entered  and  removed  his 
hat. 

"  Is  this  your  report,  sir  ?  "  asked  the  chief. 
The  man  said  it  was. 

"  And  can  you  substantiate  these  charges  ? 
Mind  you,  if  an  innocent  man  suffers  I  shall 
hold  you  accountable,  do  you  understand  ? " 
"  I  understand,  and  I  am  willing  to  swear  to 
that  statement." 

"  Have  the  men  been  arrested  ? " 
"They  have,  and  are  now  on  their  way  to 
Chicago." 

"They  will  probably  be  arraigned  to-mor 
row  morning,"  observed  the  great  detective. 
[  170  ] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


"See  that  your  witnesses  are  on  hand  —  you 
may  go  now." 

When  the  small  man  had  stolen  softly  out, 
down  the  stair  and  into  the  street,  the  chief 
detective  descended,  entered  a  closed  car 
riage  and  was  driven  to  his  home. 
It  was  now  past  midnight,  and  all  over  the 
city  printers  were  setting  up  the  story  of 
the  arrest  of  a  number  of  dynamiters  on  a 
Burlington  train.  The  wires  were  singing  it 
across  the  country,  and  cables  were  carrying 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  the  story  of  the 
disgrace  and  downfall  of  the  Brotherhood. 
The  headquarters  of  the  strikers  were 
crowded  with  a  host  of  anxious  men,  un 
willing  to  believe  that  their  brothers  had 
been  guilty  of  so  dastardly  a  crime. 
On  the  following  morning,  when  the  daily 
press  had  announced  the  arrest  of  the  al 
leged  dynamiters,  the  city  was  thrown  into 
a  fever  of  excitement,  and  thousands  who 
had  been  in  sympathy  with  the  men  now 
openly  denounced  them,  and  by  so  doing 
[171  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


gave  aid  and  encouragement  to  the  com 
pany.  The  most  conservative  papers  now 
condemned  the  strikers,  while  the  editor  of 
The  Chicago  Times  dipped  his  quill  still 
deeper  into  the  gallstand. 
Following  close  upon  the  heels  of  the  arrest 
of  these  strikers  came  the  sensational  arrest 
of  Mr.  Hogan,  director  general  of  the 
strike,  charged  with  conspiracy.  The  pri 
vate  secretaries  of  the  strike  committee 
turned  out  to  have  been  all  along  in  the 
employ  of  the  Watchem  detective  agency, 
but  the  charges  of  conspiracy  were  never 
pushed.  The  men  who  were  charged  with 
having  and  using  dynamite,  however,  were 
less  fortunate.  Two  were  imprisoned,  one 
was  fined,  the  others  proved  to  be  detec 
tives,  and  of  course  were  released. 
The  effect  of  all  this  was  very  satisfactory 
to  the  company,  and  disheartening  to  the 
men. 

The  daily  meetings  in  the  hall  in  town  were 

less  crowded,  and  the  speeches  of  the  most 

[  172  ] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


radical  and  optimistic  members  of  the  fra 
ternity  failed  to  create  the  old-time  enthu 
siasm.  The  suits  worn  by  the  strikers  were 
becoming  shiny,  and  the  suffering  in  hun 
dreds  of  homes  was  enough  to  cause  men 
to  forget  the  commandments.  The  way  cars 
and  cabs  of  out-going  freight  trains  were 
crowded  with  old  Burlington  men  starting 
out  to  find  work  on  other  roads.  They  had 
been  losing  heart  for  some  time,  and  now 
the  shame  and  disgrace  caused  by  the  con 
viction  of  the  dynamiters  made  them  long 
to  be  away  ;  to  have  a  place  in  the  world 
where  they  might  be  allowed  to  win  an 
honest  living,  and  forget  the  long  struggle 
of  which  they  had  grown  weary.  Unlike  the 
Philosopher,  they  were  always  sure  of  a 
ride,  but  they  found  that  nearly  all  the 
roads  in  the  country  had  all  the  men  they 
needed  to  handle  their  trains.  The  very  fact 
that  a  man  had  once  been  a  Burlington  en 
gineer  was  a  sufficient  recommendation,  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  striker  seems 
[  173] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


not  to  have  injured  him  in  the  estimation 
of  railway  officials  generally,  but  the  main 
trouble  was  that  there  was  no  place  for 
him. 

While  the  boy  cot  on  Burlington  cars  had 
kept  all  roads,  not  operating  under  a  re 
ceiver,  from  handling  Burlington  business, 
it  made  it  all  the  easier  for  the  company  to 
handle  the  little  traffic  that  came  to  them 
and  gave  the  road  the  appearance  of  run 
ning  trains.  All  this  was  discouraging  to  the 
men,  and  at  last,  having  exhausted  all  fair 
means,  and  some  that  were  unfair,  the  strike 
was  declared  off.  While  the  company  re 
fused  to  the  last  to  accept  anything  short 
of  unconditional  surrender  it  is  pleasing  to 
be  able  to  record  here  that  the  moment  the 
men  gave  in  the  officials  did  all  they  could, 
consistent  with  the  policy  of  the  company 
and  past  events,  to  lessen  the  pain  of  defeat. 
The  following  letter,  which  was  sent  by  the 
president  to  the  vice-president  and  general 
manager,  reminds  us  of  the  gentleness  of 
[  174  ] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


Grant,  in  receiving  the  surrender  of  a  brave 
and  noble  general  : 

Boston,  Jan.  3,  1889. 

To  -  ,  Vice-Pre^dent  C.  B.  #  Q.  Railroad, 

Chicago. 

The  company  will  not  follow  up,  black-list,  or  in  any 
manner  attempt  to  proscribe  those  who  were  concerned 
in  the  strike,  but  on  the  contrary,  will  cheerfully  give 
to  all  who  have  not  been  guilty  of  violence,  or  other 
improper  conduct,  letters  of  introduction,  showing 
their  record  in  our  service,  and  will  in  all  proper  ways 
assist  them  injinding  employment. 

In  making  this  letter  known  to  the  public 
the  general  manager  said  : 
"  It  is  important  that  no  question  should 
arise  as  to  the  good  faith  of  the  company, 
and  it  is  our  desire  and  intention  that  there 
should  be  no  opportunity  for  such  ques 
tion." 

He  even  offered  to  shield,  as  far  as  was  con 

sistent,  those  who,  in  the  heat  of  the  fight, 

had   committed   unlawful   acts.  He   was   a 

[  175] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


generous  conqueror.  It  was  humane,  and 
manly,  and  noble  in  him  to  help  those  un 
fortunate  ones  who  were  now  in  so  much 
need  of  help,  and  to  protect  them  from  the 
persecution  of  the  few  little-souled  officials 
who  were  loath  to  stop  fighting.  It  is  all  the 
more  creditable  because  he  was  not  bound 
to  do  it.  He  wrote  :  "  While  men  who  have 
been  guilty  of  improper  conduct  during  the 
late  strike  cannot  be  re-employed,  and  while 
we  cannot  give  letters  to  them,  no  officer  or 
employee  should  continue  the  animosities  of 
the  conflict  after  it  is  over,  or  interfere  to 
prevent  the  employment  of  such  men  else 
where." 


[  176] 


CHAPTER   NINETEENTH 

J\JF  last  the  agony  was  over — at  least  the 
agony  of  suspense.  The  poor  misguided  men 
knew  now  that  all  hope  had  died.  They 
would  be  re-employed  when  the  company 
needed  them,  but  it  was  January — the  dull 
est  month  in  the  year.  Every  railroad  in  the 
West  was  laying  men  off.  Hundreds  of  the 
new  men  were  standing  in  line  waiting  for 
business  to  pick  up,  and  this  line  must  be 
exhausted  before  any  of  the  old  employees 
could  be  taken  back.  The  management  con 
sidered  that  the  first  duty  of  the  company 
was  to  the  men  who  had  helped  to  win  the 
strike.  There  was  no  disposition  on  the  part 
of  the  officials  to  make  it  harder  for  the 
vanquished  army.  They  admired  the  loyalty 
and  self-sacrifice,  though  deploring  the  judg 
ment  of  the  mismanaged  men ;  but  they 
were  only  officers  in  an  opposing  army,  and 
so  fought  the  fight  for  the  interest  they  rep 
resented,  and  for  the  principles  in  which 
they  believed. 

[  177] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Nothing  in  the  history  of  the  strike  shows 
more  conclusively  that  the  men  were  out- 
generalled  than  the  manner  in  which  the 
company  handled  the  press.  It  is  not  to  be 
supposed  for  a  moment  that  the  daily  papers 
of  Chicago,  with  possibly  one  exception,  will 
fully  misrepresented  the  men,  but  the  story 
of  the  strikers  was  never  told.  Mr.  Paul,  the 
accomplished  "bureau  of  information,"  stood 
faithfully  at  the  'phone  and  saw  that  the 
public  received  no  news  that  would  em 
barrass  the  company  or  encourage  the  men. 
The  cold,  tired  reporter  found  a  warm  wel 
come  and  an  easy  chair  in  Mr.  Paul's  private 
office,  and  while  he  smoked  a  fragrant  cigar 
the  stenographer  brought  in  the  "  news  "  all 
neatly  type-  written  and  ready  for  the  printer. 
Mr.  Paul  was  a  sunny  soul,  who,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  reporter  laughed  the  seemingly 
happy  laugh  of  the  actor-man,  and  when 
alone  sighed,  suffered  and  swore  as  other 
men  did.  Mr.  Paul  was  a  genius.  By  his 
careful  manipulation  of  the  press  the  public 
[  178  ] 


CHAPTER  XIX  $0* 


was  in  time  persuaded  that  the  only  ques 
tion  was  whether  the  company,  who  owned 
the  road,  should  run  it,  or  whether  the  broth 
erhoods,  who  did  not  own  it,  should  run  it 
for  them.  Every  statement  given  out  by  the 
company  was  printed  and  accepted,  gener 
ally,  as  the  whole  thing,  while  only  two 
papers  in  all  the  town  pretended  to  print 
the  reports  issued  by  the  strikers.  The  oth 
ers  cut  them  and  doctored  them  so  that 
they  lost  their  point.  But  all  is  fair  in  love 
and  war,  and  this  was  war  —  war  to  the  knife 
and  the  knife  to  the  hilt  —  so  Mr.  Paul 
should  not  be  hated  but  admired,  even  by 
his  foes.  He  was  a  brilliant  strategist.  Many 
there  are  who  argue  to  this  day  that  Mr. 
Paul  won  the  strike  for  the  company,  but 
Mr.  Paul  says  Watchem,  the  detective,  did 
it.  At  all  events  they  each  earned  the  death 
less  hatred  of  the  strikers.  But,  leaving  this 
question  open,  the  fact  remains  that  the 
general  in  command  —  the  now  dead  hero 
of  that  fierce  fight  —  deserves  a  monument 
[  179  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


at  the  expense  of  American  railroads,  if,  as 
American  railroad  managers  argue,  that  war 
was  an  holy  war. 

There  had  never  been  a  moment  when  the 
management  feared  defeat.  They  had  met 
and  measured  the  amateur  officials  who 
were  placed  in  command  of  the  strikers. 
They  were  but  children  in  the  hands  of 
the  big  brainy  men  who  were  handling  the 
company's  business.  They  could  fire  a  loco 
motive,  "ride  a  fly,"  or  make  time  on  the 
tick  of  the  clock.  They  could  awe  a  con 
vention  of  car-hands  or  thrill  an  audience 
at  a  union  meeting,  but  they  had  not  the 
experience,  or  mental  equipment  to  cope 
with  the  diplomatic  officials  who  stood  for 
the  company.  Their  heads  had  been  turned 
by  the  magnitude  of  their  position.  They 
established  themselves  at  a  grand  hotel 
where  only  high-salaried  railroad  officials 
could  afford  to  live.  They  surrounded  them 
selves  with  a  luxury  that  would  have  been 
counted  extravagant  by  the  minister  of 
[  180  ] 


CHAPTER  XIX 


many  a  foreign  land.  They  dissipated  the 
strength  of  the  Brotherhood  and  wasted 
their  substance  in  high  living.  They  had 
gotten  into  clothes  that  did  not  fit  them, 
and,  saddest  of  all,  they  did  not  know  it. 
The  good  gray  chief  of  the  Brotherhood, 
who  was  perfectly  at  home  in  the  office 
of  a  president  or  a  general  manager,  who 
knew  how  to  meet  and  talk  with  a  reporter, 
who  was  at  ease  either  in  overalls  or  even 
ing  dress,  was  kept  in  the  background.  He 
would  sell  out  to  the  company,  the  deep- 
lunged  leaders  said.  He  could  not  be 
trusted,  and  so  from  the  men  directly  in 
terested  in  the  fight  the  strikers  chose  a 
leader,  and  he  led  them  to  inglorious  de 
feat  ;  though  defeat  was  inevitable. 
At  last,  made  desperate  by  the  shadow  of 
coming  events,  this  man,  so  the  officials  say, 
issued  a  circular  advising  old  employees  to 
return  to  work  and  when  out  on  the  road 
to  disable  and  destroy  the  company's  loco 
motives,  abandoning  them  where  they  were 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


wrecked  and  ruined.  The  man  accused  of 
this  crime  declared  that  the  circular  was  a 
forgery,  committed  by  his  secretary,  who 
was  a  detective.  But  that  the  circular  went 
out  properly  signed  and  sealed  is  beyond 
dispute,  and  in  reply  to  it  there  came  pro 
tests  from  hundreds  of  honest  engine-drivers 
all  up  and  down  the  land.  The  chief  of  a 
local  division  came  to  Chicago  with  a  copy 
of  the  circular  and  protested  so  vigorously 
that  he  was  expelled  from  the  Brotherhood, 
to  the  Brotherhood's  disgrace. 
Smarting  under  what  he  deemed  a  great 
wrong,  he  gave  the  letter  into  the  hands  of 
the  officials,  and  now  whenever  he  secures  a 
position  the  road  that  employs  him  is  forced 
to  let  him  go  again  or  have  a  strike.  He  is 
an  outcast  —  a  vagabond,  so  far  as  the  union 
is  concerned.  Ah,  the  scars  of  that  conflict 
are  deep  in  the  souls  of  men.  The  blight  of 
it  has  shadowed  hundreds  of  happy  homes, 
and  ruined  many  a  useful  life. 
With  this  "  sal-soda  "  circular  in  their  pos- 
[  182  ] 


CHAPTER   XIX 


session  the  managers  caused  the  arrest  of  its 
author,  charging  him  with  conspiracy  —  a 
serious  offense  in  Illinois. 
A  sunny-faced  man,  with  big,  soulful  blue 
eyes  and  a  blond  mustache,  had  been  living 
on  the  same  floor  occupied  by  the  strike 
committee.  He  had  conceived  a  great  inter 
est  in  the  struggle.  For  a  man  of  wealth 
and  culture  he  showed  a  remarkable  sym 
pathy  for  the  strikers,  and  so  won  the  heart 
and  confidence  of  the  striker-in-chief.  It  was 
perfectly  natural,  then,  that  in  the  excite 
ment  incidental  to  the  arrest,  the  accused 
should  rush  into  the  apartments  of  the  sym 
pathetic  stranger  and  thrust  into  his  keep 
ing  an  armful  of  letters  and  papers. 
As  the  officers  of  the  law  led  the  fallen  hero 
away  the  blond  man  selected  a  number  of 
letters  and  papers  from  the  bundle,  aban 
doned  the  balance  and  strolled  forth.  For 
weeks,  months,  he  had  been  planning  the 
capture  of  some  of  these  letters,  and  now 
they  had  all  come  to  him  as  suddenly  as 
[  183  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


fame  comes  to  a  man  who  sinks  a  ship  under 
the  enemy's  guns. 

This  blond  man  was  a  detective.  His  vic 
tim  was  a  child. 

Yes,  the  great  struggle  that  had  caused  so 
much  misery  and  cost  so  many  millions  was 
at  an  end,  but  it  was  worth  to  labor  and 
capital  all  it  had  cost.  The  lesson  has  lasted 
ten  years,  and  will  last  ten  more. 
It  had  been  a  long,  bitter  fight  in  which 
even  the  victorious  had  lost.  They  had  lost 
at  least  five  million  dollars  in  wrecked  and 
ruined  rolling  stock,  bridges  and  buildings. 
The  loss  in  net  earnings  alone  was  nearly 
five  millions  in  the  first  five  months  of  the 
strike  that  lasted  nearly  a  year.  It  would 
cost  five  millions  more  to  put  the  property 
in  the  same  excellent  condition  in  which 
the  opening  of  hostilities  had  found  it.  It 
would  cost  another  five  millions  to  win  back 
the  confidence  of  the  travelling  and  ship 
ping  public.  Twenty  millions  would  not 
cover  the  cost,  directly  and  indirectly,  to 
[  184  ] 


CHAPTER  XIX 


the  company,  for  there  were  no  end  of 
small  items  —  incidentals.  To  a  single  detec 
tive  agency  they  paid  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  And  there  were  others. 
It  has  taken  nearly  ten  years  to  restore  the 
road  to  its  former  condition,  and  to  man 
the  engines  as  they  were  manned  before 
the  strike.  It  would  have  taken  much  longer 
had  the  owners  of  the  property  not  settled 
upon  the  wise  policy  of  promoting  men  who 
had  been  all  their  lives  in  the  employ  of  the 
Burlington  road,  to  fill  the  places  as  fast  as 
they  became  vacant,  of  men  —  the  heroes  of 
the  strike  —  who  were  now  sought  out  by 
other  companies  for  loftier  positions.  In  this 
way  the  affairs  of  the  company  were  con 
stantly  in  the  hands  of  men  who  had  gone 
through  it  all,  who  could  weed  out  the 
worthless  among  the  new  men,  and  select 
the  best  of  those  who  had  left  the  road  at 
the  beginning  of  the  strike.  The  result  is 
that  there  is  scarcely  an  official  of  impor 
tance  in  the  employ  of  the  company  to-day 
'  [  185  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


who  has  not  been  with  it  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century.  The  man  who  took  the  first  engine 
out  at  the  beginning  of  the  strike—  taking 
his  life  in  his  hands,  as  many  believed  —  is 
now  the  general  manager  of  the  road. 
There  was  something  admirable,  even  he 
roic,  in  the  action  of  the  owners  in  standing 
calmly  by  while  the  officials  melted  down 
millions  of  gold.  As  often  as  a  directors' 
meeting  was  called  the  strikers  would  take 
heart.  "Surely,"  they  would  say,  "when 
they  see  what  it  costs  to  fight  us  they  will 
surrender."  The  men  seem  never  to  have 
understood  that  all  this  was  known  to  the 
directors  long  before  the  sad  news  reached 
the  public.  And  then,  when  the  directors 
would  meet  and  vote  to  stand  by  the  pres 
ident,  and  the  president  would  approve  and 
endorse  all  that  the  general  manager  had 
done,  the  disheartened  striker  would  turn 
sadly  away  to  break  the  melancholy  news 
to  a  sorrowing  wife,  who  was  keeping  lonely 
vigil  in  a  cheerless  home. 
[  186  ] 


CHAPTER    TWENTIETH 

_LfAN  MORAN  had  not  applied  for  re-em 
ployment  when  the  strike  was  off,  but 
chose  rather  to  look  for  work  elsewhere, 
and  he  had  looked  long  and  faithfully,  and 
found  no  place.  First  of  all  he  had  gone 
west,  away  to  the  coast,  but  with  no  suc 
cess.  Then  he  swung  around  the  southern 
route,  up  the  Atlantic  coast  and  home 
again.  Three  years, — one  year  with  the 
strikers, — four  years  in  all  of  idleness,  and 
he  was  discouraged.  "  It 's  the  curse  of  the 
prison,"  he  used  to  say  to  his  most  intimate 
friends;  "the  damp  of  that  dungeon  clings 
to  me  like  a  plague.  It's  a  blight  from 
which  I  can't  escape.  Every  one  seems  to 
know  that  I  was  arrested  as  a  dynamiter, 
and  even  my  old  friends  shun  me." 
He  had  been  saying  something  like  that 
to  Patsy  Daly  the  very  day  he  returned  to 
Chicago.  They  were  walking  down  through 
the  yards,  for  Patsy,  who  was  close  to  the 
officials,  had  insisted  upon  going  personally 
[  187  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


to  the  master-mechanic,  and  interceding  for 
the  old  engineer  who  had  carried  him  thou 
sands  of  miles  while  the  world  slept,  and 
the  wild  storm  raged  around  them.  Patsy 
had  been  telling  the  old  engineer  the  news 
of  the  road,  but  was  surprised  that  Moran 
should  seem  to  know  all  that  had  taken 
place,  the  changes  and  promotions,  the  vast 
improvements  that  had  been  made  by  the 
company,  and  the  rapidly  growing  traffic. 
Patsy  stopped  short,  and  looking  his  com 
panion  in  the  eye,  began  to  laugh. 
"  Now  what  in  thunder  are  you  laughing 
at  ?  "  asked  Moran. 

"At  Patsy  Daly,  the  luny,"  said  the  con 
ductor  (Patsy  had  been  promoted)  ;  "  why, 
of  course  you  know  everything.  I  Ve  been 
rooming  at  the  house,  and  I  remember  now 
that  she  always  knew  just  where  you  were 
at  all  times.  Ah  !  ye  sly  old  rogue  —  " 
"Patsy,"  said  Moran,  seriously,  putting  up 
his  hand  as  a  signal  for  silence. 
"That's  all  right,  old  man.  She  deserves  a 
[  188  ] 


CHAPTER  XX 


decent  husband,  but  it  '11  be  something  new 

to  her.  Say,  Dan,  a  fool  has  less  sense  than 

anybody,   an'    Patsy   Daly's    a  fool.    Here 

have  I  been  at  the  point  of  making  love  to 

her  myself,  and  only  her  tears  and  that  big 

boy  of  hers  have  kept  me  from  it.  And  all 

the  time  I  thought  she  was  wastin'  water  on 

that  blatherskite  of  a  Cowels,  but  I  think 

better  of  her  now." 

"And  why  should  she  weep  for  any  one 

else  ?  "  asked  the  old  engineer. 

"  And   why   should  n't   she   weep   for  you, 

Dannie  ?  wandering  up  and  down  the  earth, 

homeless  and  alone.  Why  I  remember  now. 

She  would  cry  in  her  coffee  at  the  men 

tion  of  your  name.  And  Dan,  she  's  growin' 

prettier   every  day,  and   she's   that  gentle 

and— 

Just  then  the  wild  scream  of  a  yard  engine 

close    behind    them   caused    them    to   step 

aside. 

"  Wope  !  "   cried  a  switchman,  bang   bang 

went   the  bell  —  "Look    out   there,"  yelled 

[  189  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Patsy,  for  as  the  two  pedestrians  looked 
back  they  saw  a  drunken  man  reel  out 
from  among  the  cars.  The  driver  of  the 
switch-engine  saw  the  man  as  the  engine 
struck  him,  and,  reversing,  came  to  a  quick 
stop  and  leaped  to  the  ground. 
The  man  lay  with  his  lower  limbs  beneath 
the  machine,  and  a  blind  driver  (those  broad 
wheels  that  have  no  flanges)  resting  on  the 
pit  of  his  stomach,  holding  him  to  the  rail. 
The  young  engineer,  having  taken  in  the 
situation,  leaped  upon  his  engine,  and  was 
about  to  back  off  when  Moran  signalled  him 
to  stand  still.  "Don't  move,"  said  the  old 
engineer,  "he  may  want  to  say  a  word  be 
fore  he  dies,  and  if  you  move  that  wheel  he 
will  be  dead." 

"  Why,  hello  Greene,  old  hoss  ;  is  this  you  ?  " 
asked  Moran,  lifting  the  head  of  the  un 
fortunate  man  and  pushing  the  unkept  hair 
back  from  his  forehead. 
Greene  opened  his  eyes  slowly,  looked  at 
his  questioner,  glanced  ah1  about  and,  as 
[  190  ] 


CHAPTER  XX 


Moran  lifted  his  head,  gazed  at  the  great 
wheel  that  had  almost  cut  his  body  into 
two  pieces.  He  was  perfectly  sober  now, 
and  asked  why  they  didn't  back  up  and 
look  him  over. 

"  We  shall  presently,"  said   Moran,  "  only 
we  were  afraid  we  might  hurt  you.  You  are 
not  in  any  pain  now,  are  you  ?  " 
"  No,"  said  the  man,  "  I  don't  know  when 
I  Ve  felt  more  comfortable  ;  but  for  all  that  I 
guess  I  'm  clean  cut  in  two,  ain't  I,  Dan  ?  " 
"  Oh  no,  not  so  bad  as  that." 
"  Oh  yes,  I  guess  there  's  no  use  holdin'  out 
on  me.  Is  the  foreman  here  ?  " 
"  Yes,  here  I  am,  Billy." 
"  Billy  !  "  said  Greene,  "  now  would  n't  that 
drive  you  to  cigarettes  ?  Billy  !  —  why  don't 
you  call   me   drunken  Bill  ?   I  'm   used   to 
that." 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  old  man  ?  "  asked  the  fore 
man,  bending  down. 

"  You  know  this  man  ?  This  is  Dan  Moran, 

the   dynamiter."  And   the  foreman  of  the 

[191  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


round-house,  recognizing  the  old  engineer 
for  the  first  time,  held  out  his  hand,  partly 
to  show  to  Moran  and  others  that  the  strike 
was  off,  and  partly  to  please  the  dying  man. 
"  That  's  right,"  said  Greene  to  the  foreman, 
"  it  H  be  good  for  you  to  touch  an  honest 
hand." 

By  this  time  a  great  crowd  had  gathered 
about  the  engine.  Some  police  officers 
pushed  in  and  ordered  the  engineer  to 
"back  away." 

"  An'  what  's  it  to  ye  ?  "  asked  Greene  with 
contempt,  for  he  hated  the  very  buttons  of 
a  policeman.  "  It  's  no  funeral  uf  yours.  Ye 
won't  grudge  me  a  few  moments  with  me 
friend,  will  ye  ?  Move  on  ye  tarrier." 
The  big  policeman  glanced  about  and  rec 
ognizing  the  foreman  asked  why  the  devil 
he  did  n't  "  git  th'  feUy  out  ?  " 
Now  a  red-haired  woman  came  to  the  edge 
of  the  crowd,  put  her  bucket  and  scrubbing 
brush  down,  and  asked  what  had  happened. 
"  Drunk  man  under  the  engine,"  said  one  of 
[  192  ] 


CHAPTER   XX 


the  curious,  snappishly.  The  woman  knew 

that  Greene  had  passed  out  that  way  only 

a  few  moments  ago.  She  had  given  him  a 

quarter  and  he  had  promised  not  to  come 

back  to  her  again,  and  now  she  put  her 

head  down  and  ploughed  through  the  crowd 

like  a  football  player. 

"  Hello  Mag,"  said  Greene,  as  the  woman 

threw  herself  upon  her  knees  beside  him. 

"  Here  's  yer  money  —  I  won't  get  to  spend 

it,"  and  he  opened  his  clinched  fist  and  there 

was  the  piece  of  silver  that  she  had  given 

him. 

The  big  policeman  now  renewed  his  request 

to  have  the  man  taken  out,  but  the  foreman 

whispered  something  to  him.  "  Oh  !  begorry, 

is  that  so  ?  All  right,  all  right,"  said  the  offi 

cer. 

"  Am  I  delayin'  traffic  ?  "  asked  Greene  of 

the  foreman.  "It  takes  a  little  time  to  die 

ye  know,  but  ye  only  have  to  do  it  onct." 

"  Have  ye's   anythin'  to   say  ?  "  asked   the 

officer. 

[  193  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"Yes,"  said   Greene,  for   his  hatred  for  a 
policeman  stayed  with  him  to  the  end,  "ye 
can  do  me  a  favor." 
"An'  phot  is  it?" 

"  Jist  keep  your  nose  out  of  this  business, 
an'  don't  speak  to  me  again  till  after  I  'm 
dead.  Do  ye  mind  that,  ye  big  duffer  ?  " 
It  was  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  when  he 
could  say  what  was  on  his  mind  to  a  police 
man  without  the  dread  of  being  arrested. 
"Come  closer,  Mag  —  whisper,  Dan.  Here, 
you,"  said  Greene  to  the  foreman,  and  that 
official  bent  down  to  catch  the  words  which 
were  growing  fainter  every  moment.  "  I  'm 
goin'  to  die.  Ye  mind  the  time  ye  kicked 
me  out  at  the  round-house  ?  Well,  ye  don't 
need  to  say  ;  I  mind,  an'  that  's  sufficient.  I 
swore  to  git  even  with  the  Burlington  for 
that.  I  hated  George  Cowels  because  he 
married  a  woman  that  was  too  good  fur  'im, 
—  she  was  too  good  for  me,  for  that  matter. 
Well,  when  he  went  back  on  the  Brother 
hood  and  took  his  old  engineer's  job  I  went 
[  194  ] 


CHAPTER  XX 


to  this  man  Moran  and  offered  to  blow  the 
engine  up,  and  he  put  me  out  of  his  room. 
I  then  put  the  dynamite  on  the  engine 
myself  an'  Moran  followed  me  and  took  it 
off,  and  saved  Cowels's  life,  prevented  me 
from  becoming  a  murderer,  and  went  to 
jail.  Good-by,  Mag.  Give  me  your  hand 
Dan,  old  man.  Back  up." 
The  old  engineer  nodded  to  the  foreman, 
who  signalled  the  man  on  the  engine,  and 
the  great  wheel  moved  from  above  the 
body.  More  than  one  man  turned  his  back 
to  the  machine.  The  woman  fainted.  Moran 
had  covered  the  eyes  of  the  unfortunate 
man  with  his  hand,  and  now  when  he  re 
moved  it  slowly  the  man's  eyes  were  still 
closed.  He  never  moved  a  finger  nor  uttered 
a  sound.  It  was  as  if  he  had  suddenly  fallen 
asleep. 


[  195  ] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FIRST 

A  HE  Denver  Limited  had  backed  into  the 
depot  shed  at  Chicago,  and  was  loading 
when  the  Philosopher  came  through  the 
gate.  He  was  going  down  to  Zero  Junction 
where  he  was  serving  the  company  in  the 
capacity  of  station  agent.  Patsy  Daly  was 
taking  the  numbers  of  the  cars,  and  at  his 
elbow  walked  a  poorly-dressed  man,  and 
the  Philosopher  knew  in  a  moment  that  the 
man  wanted  to  ride. 

The  Philosopher,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
strolled  up  and  down  catching  snatches  of 
the  man's  talk.  In  a  little  while  he  had 
gathered  that  the  anxious  stranger's  wife 
lay  dying  in  Cheyenne,  and  that  he  had 
been  tramping  up  and  down  the  land  for 
six  months  looking  for  work.  If  Patsy  could 
give  him  a  lift  to  Omaha  he  could  work  his 
way  over  the  U.  P.  where  he  knew  some 
of  the  trainmen,  having  worked  on  the  Kan 
sas  Pacific  out  of  Denver  in  the  early  days 
of  the  road.  His  story  was  so  lifelike  and 
[  196  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


pathetic  that  Patsy  was  beginning  to  look 
troubled.  If  he  could  help  a  fellow-creature 
up  the  long,  hard  hill  of  life  —  three  or  four 
hundred  miles  in  a  single  night  —  without 
straining  the  capacity  of  the  engine,  he  felt 
that  he  ought  to  do  it. 

Patsy  had  gone  to  the  head  end  (the  stran 
ger  standing  respectfully  apart)  to  ask  the 
engineer  to  slow  down  at  the  Junction,  and 
let  the  agent  off.  He  hoped  the  man  might 
go  away  and  try  a  freight  train,  but  as  the 
conductor  turned  back  the  unfortunate  trav 
eller  joined  him. 

Now  the  eyes  of  Patsy  fell  upon  the  face 
of  the  Philosopher,  and  a  brilliant  thought 
flashed  through  his  mind.  He  marvelled, 
afterwards,  that  he  had  not  thought  of  it 
sooner. 

"Here,  old  man,"  said  Patsy,  "take  this 
fellow's  testimony,  try  his  case,  and  let  me 
have  your  opinion  in  nine  minutes  —  it's 
just  ten  minutes  to  leaving  time." 
Now  it  was  the  Philosopher  to  whom  the 
[  197  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


prospective  widower   rehearsed   his  tale  of 
woe. 

There  was  not  much  time,  so  the  station 
agent  at  Zero  began  by  offering  the  man 
a  cigar,  which  was  accepted.  In  the  midst 
of  his  sorrowful  story  the  man  paused  to 
observe  a  handsome  woman,  who  was  at 
that  moment  lifting  her  dainty,  silken  skirts 
to  step  into  the  sleeper.  The  Philosopher 
had  his  eyes  fastened  to  the  face  of  the 
man,  and  he  thought  he  saw  the  man's 
mustache  quiver  as  though  it  had  been  agi 
tated  by  the  passing  of  a  smothered  smile. 
"  Well,"  the  man  was  saying,  "  we  had  been 
married  only  a  year  when  I  lost  my  place 
and  started  out  to  look  for  work." 
By  this  time  he  had  taken  a  small  pocket 
knife  from  his  somewhat  ragged  vest,  clipped 
the  end  off  the  cigar  neatly,  put  the  cut  end 
between  his  teeth,  and  the  knife  back  into 
his  pocket.  Without  pausing  in  his  narrative 
(he  knew  he  had  but  nine  minutes)  he  held 
out  a  hand  for  a  match.  The  Philosopher 
[  198  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


pretended  not  to  notice  the  movement, 
which  was  graceful  and  perfectly  natural. 
As  they  turned,  up  near  the  engine,  the 
sorrowful  man  went  into  his  vest  again  and 
brought  up  a  small,  silver  match-box  which 
he  held  carefully  in  his  closed  fist,  but 
which  snapped  sharply,  as  the  knife  had 
done  when  he  closed  it. 
"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  Philosopher,  reach 
ing  for  the  match-box,  "  I  Ve  lost  my  fire." 
The  melancholy  man  made  a  move  towards 
his  vest,  paused,  changed  his  mind,  and 
passed  over  his  lighted  cigar. 
"  Go  on,"  said  the  examining  judge,  when 
he  had  got  his  cigar  going  again. 
Now  at  each  turn  the  Philosopher  quick 
ened  his  pace,  and  the  man,  eager  to  finish 
his  sad  story,  walked  beside  him  with  a 
graceful,  springy  walk.  The  man's  story  was 
so  like  his  own  —  so  like  the  tale  he  had  told 
to  Patsy  when  the  strikers  had  chased  him 
into  a  box  car  —  that  his  heart  must  have 
melted,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  he 
[  199  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


was  becoming  more  and  more  convinced, 
as  the  story  grew  upon  him,  that  the  man 
was  lying.  Now  and  then  he  said  to  himself 
in  spite  of  himself,  "  This  must  be  true,"  for 
there  were  tears  in  the  man's  voice,  and  yet 
there  were  things  about  him  that  must  be 
explained  before  he  could  ride. 
"Patsy,"  said  the  Philosopher,  pausing  be 
fore  the  conductor,  "  if  you  '11  stand  half  the 
strain,  I  '11  go  buy  a  ticket  for  this  man  to 
Cheyenne." 

"  N'  no,"  said  the  man,  visibly  affected  by 
this  unexpected  generosity,  "  n'  no,  I  can't 
let  you  do  that.  I  should  be  glad  of  a  ride 
that  would  cost  you  nothing  and  the  com 
pany  nothing;  but  I  can't  —  I  can't  take 
your  money,"  and  he  turned  away,  touch 
ing  the  cuff  of  his  coat,  first  to  his  right  and 
then  to  his  left  eye. 

Patsy  sighed,  and  the  two  men  walked 
again.  Five  minutes  more  and  the  big  en 
gine  would  begin  to  crawl  from  the  great 
shed,  and  the  voyager  began  wondering 
[  200  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


whether  he  would  be  on  board.  The  engi 
neer  was  going  round  the  engine  for  the  last 
time.  The  fireman  had  spread  his  fire  and 
was  leaning  leisurely  on  the  arm-rest.  The 
Pullman  conductors,  with  clean  cuffs  and 
collars,  were  putting  away  their  people. 
The  black-faced  porters  were  taking  the 
measures  of  men  as  they  entered  the  car. 
Here  comes  a  gray-haired  clergyman,  carry 
ing  a  heavy  hand-satchel,  and  by  his  side  an 
athletic  looking  commercial  tourist. 
One  of  the  black  porters  glides  forward, 
takes  the  light  hand-grip,  containing  the 
travelling  man's  tooth-brush,  nightshirt,  and 
razor,  and  runs  up  the  step  with  it. 
Now  a  train  arrives  from  the  West,  and  the 
people  who  are  going  away  look  into  the 
faces  of  the  people  who  are  coming  home, 
who  look  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  but 
straight  ahead  at  the  open  gates,  and  in 
three  minutes  the  empty  cars  are  being 
backed  away,  to  be  washed  and  dusted,  and 
made  ready  for  another  voyage.  How  sad 
[  201  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


and  interesting  would  be  the  story  of  the 
life  of  a  day  coach.  Beaten,  bumped,  bat 
tered,  and  banged  about  in  the  yards,  tram 
pled  and  spat  upon  by  vulgar  voyagers,  who 
get  on  and  off  at  flag  stations,  and  finally, 
in  a  head-end  coUision,  crushed  between  the 
heavy  vestibuled  sleepers  and  the  mighty 
engine. 

But  sadder  still  is  the  story  of  a  man  who 
has  been  buffeted  about  and  walked  upon 
by  the  arrogant  of  this  earth,  and  to  such 
a  story  the  Philosopher  was  now  listening. 
The  man  was  talking  so  rapidly  that  he 
almost  balled  up  at  times,  and  had  to  go 
back  and  begin  again.  At  times  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  Philosopher,  to  whom  he 
was  talking,  was  giving  little,  or  no  atten 
tion  to  his  tale  ;  but  he  was.  He  was  making 
up  his  mind. 

It  is  amazing  the  amount  of  work  that  can 
be  done  in  ten  minutes,  when  all  the  world 
is  working.  Tons  of  trunks  had  passed  in 
and  out,  the  long  platform  had  been  peo- 
[  202  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


pled  and  depopulated  twice  since  the  two 
men  began  their  walk,  and  now  another 
train  gave  up  its  human  freight  to  the  al 
ready  crowded  city. 

Now,  as  they  went  up  and  down,  the  Phil 
osopher,  at  each  turn,  went  a  little  nearer  to 
the  engine.  Only  three  minutes  remained  to 
him  in  which  to  render  his  decision,  which 
was  to  help  the  unhappy  man  a  half-thou 
sand  miles  on  the  way  to  his  dying  wife,  or 
leave  him  sadder  still  because  of  the  failure 
—  to  pine  and  ponder  upon  man's  inhuman 
ity  to  man. 

Patsy,  glancing  now  and  then  at  the  big 
clock  on  the  station  wall,  searched  the  sad 
face  of  his  friend  and  tried  to  read  there  the 
answer  to  the  man's  prayer. 
It  would  be  that  the  man  should  ride,  he 
had  no  doubt,  for  this  story  was  so  like  the 
story  of  this  same  man,  the  Philosopher, 
with  which  he  had  come  into  Patsy's  life, 
and  Patsy  had  resolved  never  to  turn  his 
back  upon  a  man  who  was  down  on  his  luck. 
[  203  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


The  Philosopher's  face  was  indecipherable. 
Finally  when  they  had  come  to  the  turning 
point  in  the  shadow  of  the  mail  car,  he 
stopped,  leaned  against  the  corner  of  the 
tank  and  said  :  "  I  can't  make  you  out,  and 
you  haven't  made  out  your  case." 
"  I  don't  follow  you,"  said  the  man. 
"  No  ?  Well  suppose  I  say,  for  answer,  that 
1  11  let  you  go  —  sneak  away  up  through  the 
yards  and  lose  yourself  ;  provided  you  prom 
ise  not  to  do  it  again." 

"  You  talk  in  riddles.  What  is  it  that  I  am 
not  to  do  again  ?  You  say  you  have  hit  the 
road  yourself,  and  you  ought  to  have  sym 
pathy  for  a  fellow  out  o'  luck." 
"  I  have,  and  that  's  why  I  'm  going  to  let 
you  go.  Your  story  is  a  sad  one,  and  it  has 
softened  my  heart.  It  's  the  story  of  my  own 
life." 

"Then  how  can  you  refuse  me  this  favor, 
that  will  cost  you  nothing  ?  " 
"  Had  n't  you  better  go  ?  " 
"No,  I  want  you  to  answer  me." 
[  204  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


"  Well,  to  be  frank  with  you,  you  are  not  a 

tramp.  You  Ve  got  money,  and  you  had  red 

wine  with  your  supper,  or  your  dinner,  as 

you  would  say." 

The  man  laughed,  a  soundless  laugh,  and 

tried  to  look  sad. 

"  You  Ve   got  a  gold   signet   ring  in  your 

right  trousers  pocket." 

The  man  worked  his  fingers  and  when  the 

Philosopher  thought  he  must  have  the  ring 

in  his  hand,  he  caught  hold  of  the  man's 

wrist,  jerked  the  hand  from  his  pocket,  and 

the  ring  rolled  upon  the  platform.   When 

the  man  cut  off  the  end  of  his  cigar  the 

Philosopher  had  seen  a  white  line  around 

one  of  the  fingers  of  the  man's  sea-browned 

hand.  Real  tramps,  thought  the  Philosopher, 

don't  cut  off  the  ends  of  their  cigars.  They 

bite  them  off,  and  save  the  bite.  They  don't 

throw  a  half-smoked  cigar  away,  but  put  it, 

burning  if  necessary,  in  their  pocket. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  demanded  the  man, 

indignantly. 

[  205  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  Pick  up  your  ring." 
"  I  have  a  mind  to  smash  you." 
"Do,  and  you  can  ride." 
"  You  Ve  got  your  nerve." 
"You  haven't.  Why  did  you  stare  at  that 
lady's  feet,  when  she  was  climbing  into  the 
car?" 

"  That  's  not  your  business." 
"  It's  all  my  business  now." 
"  1  11  report  you  for  this." 
The  man  started  to  walk  past  the  big  sta 
tion  master,  but  a  strong  hand  was  clapped 
to  the  man's  breast  pocket  and  when  it  came 
away  it  held  a  small  pocket  memorandum. 
"See  what's  in  that,  Patsy,"  said  the  Phil 
osopher,  passing  the  book  to  the  conductor, 
who  had  gone  forward  for  the  decision. 
The   man   made  a   move,  as   if  he   would 
snatch  the  book,  but   the  big  hand  at   his 
throat  twisted  the  flannel  shirt,  and  choked 
him.  Patsy,  holding  the  book  in  the  glare  of 
his  white  light,  read   the  record  of  a  man 
who  had  been  much  away  from  home.  He 
[  206  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


had,    according   to   the   book,    ridden   with 

many   conductors,   whose   names   were    fa 

miliar  to  Patsy,  and  had,  upon  divers  occa 

sions,  noticed  that  sometimes  some  people 

rode  without  paying  fare.  In  another  place 

Patsy  learned  that  trainmen  and  other  em 

ployees   drank  beer,   or   other   intoxicating 

beverages.  A  case  in  point  was  a  couple  of 

brakemen  on  local  who,  after  unloading  a 

half-dozen  reapers  and  a  threshing  machine 

at  Mendota,  had  gone  into  a  saloon  with  the 

shipper  and  killed  their  thirst. 

While  Patsy  was  gleaning  this  interesting 

information  the  man  writhed  and  twisted, 

fought  and  fumed,  but  it  was  in  vain,  for 

the  hand  of  the  Philosopher  was  upon  his 

throat. 

"  Let  me  go,"  gasped  the  man,  "  an'  we  '11 

call  it  square,  an'  I  won't  report  you." 

"  Oh  !  how  good  of  you." 

"  Let  me  go,  I  say,  you  big  brute." 

"  I  wanted  to  let  you  go  a  while  ago,  and 

you  would  n't  have  it." 

[  207  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


The  man  pulled  back  like  a  horse  that  won't 
stand  hitched  and  the  button  flew  from  his 
cheap  flannel  shirt. 

"  I  'm  a  goat,"  said  the  Philosopher,  stroking 
the  man's  chest  with  his  big  right  hand,  "  if 
he  hasn't  got  on  silk  underwear." 
"Come  now,   you   fellahs,"   said  the  man 
changing  his  tune,  "let  me  go  and  you'll 
always  have  a  friend  at  Court." 
"  Be   quiet,"   said    the    Philosopher,    "  I  'm 
going  to  let  you  go,  but  tell  me,  why  did 
you  want  to  do  little  Patsy,  that  everybody 
likes?" 

"  Because   Mr.  Paul   was   so   cock  sure  I 
couldn't.  He  bet  me  a  case  of  champagne 
that  I  could  n't  ride  on  the  Omaha  Limited 
without  paying  fare." 
"  And  now  you  lose  the  champagne." 
"  It  looks  that  way." 
"Poor  tramp!" 

Patsy  had  walked  to  the  rear  of  the  train, 
shouted  "All   aboard,"  and  the  cars  were 
now  slipping  past  the  two  men. 
[  208  ] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


"  Have  you  still  a  mind  to  smash  me  ?  " 

"  I  may  be  a  wolf  but  this  is  not  my  night 

to  howl." 

"  Every  dog  has  his  day,  eh  ?  " 

"  Curse  you." 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  Philosopher,  reach 

ing  for  a  passing  car. 

"  Go  to  —  "  said  the  tramp,  and  the  train 

faded  away  out  over  the  switches. 


[  209  ] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY  SECOND 

JL  HE  old  master-mechanic,  who  had  insisted 
that  Dan  Moran  was  innocent,  from  the 
first,  had  gone  away  ;  but  the  new  man  was 
willing  to  give  him  an  engine  after  the  con 
fession  of  Bill  Greene.  Having  secured  work 
the  old  engineer  called  upon  the  widow,  for 
he  could  tell  her,  now,  all  about  the  dyna 
mite.  Three  years  had  brought  little  change 
to  her.  She  might  be  a  little  bit  stouter,  but 
she  was  handsomer  than  ever,  Dan  thought. 
The  little  girl,  whom  he  remembered  as  a 
toddling  infant,  was  a  sunny  child  of  four 
years.  Bennie  was  now  fourteen  and  was 
employed  as  caller  at  the  round-house,  and 
his  wages,  thirty  dollars  a  month,  kept  up 
the  expenses  of  the  home.  He  had  inherited 
the  splendid  constitution  of  his  father  with 
the  gentleness  and  honesty  of  his  mother. 
The  foreman  was  very  fond  of  him,  and 
having  been  instructed  by  the  old  general 
manager  to  take  good  care  of  the  boy,  for 
his  mother's  sake,  he  had  arranged  to  send 
[  210  ] 


CHAPTER  XXII 


him  out  firing,  which  would  pay  better,  as 
soon  as  he  was  old  enough.  So  Moran  found 
the  little  family  well,  prosperous,  and  rea 
sonably  happy.  Presently,  when  she  could 
wait  no  longer,  Mrs.  Cowels  asked  the  old 
engineer  if  he  had  come  back  to  stay,  and 
when  he  said  he  had,  her  face  betrayed  so 
much  joy  that  Moran  felt  half  embarrassed, 
and  his  heart,  which  had  been  so  heavy  for 
the  past  four  years,  gave  a  thump  that 
startled  him.  "  Oh  !  I  'm  so  glad,"  she  said 
earnestly,  looking  down  and  playing  with 
her  hands  ;  and  while  her  eyes  were  not 
upon  his,  Moran  gazed  upon  the  gentle  face 
that  had  haunted  him  day  and  night  in  his 
three  years'  tramp  about  the  world. 
"Yes,"  he  said  at  length,  "I'm  going  back 
to  the  '  Q.'  It  's  not  Blackwings,  to  be  sure, 
and  the  Denver  Limited,  but  it's  work, 
and  that's  something,  for  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  can  bear  this  idleness  no  longer.  It's 
the  hardest  work  in  the  world,  just  to  have 
nothing  to  do,  month  in  and  month  out, 
[  211  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


and  to  be  compelled  to  do  it.  I  can't  stand 
it,  that  's  all,  and  I  'm  going  out  on  a  gravel 
train  to-morrow." 

Moran  remembered  now  that  Bennie  had 
come  to  him  that  morning  in  the  round 
house  and  begged  the  engineer  to  "ask  for 
him,"  to  go  out  as  fireman  on  the  gravel 
train,  for  it  was  really  a  boy's  work  to  keep 
an  engine  hot  on  a  side  track,  but  he  would 
not  promise,  and  the  boy  had  been  greatly 
disappointed. 

"I  'd  like  to  ask  for  the  boy,"  said  Moran, 
"  with  your  permission.  He  's  been  at  me  all 
morning,  and  I  'm  sure  the  foreman  won't 
object  if  you  consent." 
"  But  he  's  so  young,  Dan  ;  he  could  never 
do  the  work." 

"  I  '11  look  out  for  him,"  said  the  engineer, 
nodding  his  head.  "  1  11  keep  him  busy 
waiting  on  me  when  we  lay  up,  and  when 
we  have  a  hard  run  for  a  meeting-point 
there  's  always  the  head  brakeman,  and  they 
can  usually  fire  as  well  as  a  fireman." 
[  212  ] 


CHAPTER  XXII 


"  I  will   consent  only  to  please  him,"   she 

said,   "  and  because  I   should  like  to  have 

him  with  you." 

He  thanked  her  for  the  compliment,  and 

took  up  his  hat  to  go. 

"  And  how  often  shall  I  see  you  now  ?  I 

mean  —  how   soon  —  when    will    Bennie    be 

home  again  ?  " 

They  were  standing  close  together  in  the 

little  hall,  and  when  he   looked  deep  into 

her  eyes,  she  became  confused  and  blushed 

like  a  school-girl. 

"Well,  to  be  honest,  we  never  know  on  a 

run  of  this  sort  when  we  may  get  back  to 

town.    It    may   be    a    day,    a   week,    or    a 

month,"  said  Moran.  "  But  1  11  promise  you 

that  I  will  not  keep  him  away  longer  than 

is  necessary.  We   don't  work  Sundays,   of 

course,  and  I  '11  try  and  dead-head  him  in 

Saturday  nights,  and  you  can  send  him  back 

on  the  fast  freight  Sunday  evenings.  The 

watchman  can  fire  the  engine  in  an  emer 

gency,  you  know." 

[  213  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"  But  the  watchman  could  n't  run  her  in  an 
emergency  ?  "  queried  the  little  woman. 
"  I  'm  afraid  not,"  said  Moran,  catching  the 
drift  of  her  mind,  and  feeling  proud  of  the 
compliment  concealed  in  the  harmless  query. 
"  But  I  shah1  enjoy  having  him  come  to  you 
once  a  week  to  show  you  that  I  have  not 
forgotten  my  promise." 
"  And  I  shall  know,"  she  answered,  putting 
up  a  warning  finger,  "  by  his  actions  whether 
you  have  been  good  to  him." 
"  And  by  the  same  token  I  can  tell  whether 
you  are  happy,"  rejoined  the  engineer,  tak 
ing  both  her  hands  in  his  to  say  good-bye. 
Moran   went   directly   to   the   round-house 
and  spoke  to  the  foreman,  and  when  Bennie 
came  home  that  evening  he  threw  himself 
upon  his  mother's  neck  and  wept  for  very 
joy.  His   mother  wept,   too,  for   it   means 
something  to  a  mother  to  have  her  only  boy 
go  out  to  begin  life  on  the  rail.  After  supper 
they  all  went  over  to  the  little  general  store, 
where  she  had  once  been  refused  credit  — 
[  214  ] 


CHAPTER  XXII 


where  she  had  spent  their  last  dollar  for 
Christmas  presents  for  little  Bennie  and  his 
father,  chiefly  his  father  —  and  bought  two 
suits  of  bright  blue  overclothes  for  the  new 
fireman.  "  Mother,  I  once  heard  the  fore 
man  say  that  Dan  Moran  had  been  like  a 
father  to  papa,"  said  Bennie  that  evening. 
"  Guess  he  '11  start  in  being  a  father  to  me 
now,  eh  !  mother  ?  " 

Mrs.  Cowels  smiled  and  kissed  him,  and 
then  she  cried  a  little,  but  only  a  little,  for 
in  spite  of  all  her  troubles  she  felt  almost 
happy  that  night. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Bennie  fin 
ished  trying  on  his  overclothes  and  finally 
fell  asleep.  It  was  only  four  A.  M.  when  he 
shook  his  mother  gently  and  asked  her  to 
get  up  and  get  breakfast. 
"  What  time  is  it,  Bennie  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know,  exactly,"  said  Bennie,  "  but  it 
must  be  late.  I  Ve  been  up  a  long,  long  time. 
You  know  you  have  to  put  up  my  lunch,  and 
I  want  to  get  down  and  draw  my  supplies. 
[  215  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Could  n't  do  it  last  night  'cause  they  did  n't 
know  what  engine  we  were  going  to  have." 
Mrs.  Cowels  got  up  and  prepared  breakfast 
and  Bennie  ate  hurriedly  and  then  began  to 
look  out  for  the  caller.  He  would  have  gone 
to  the  round-house  at  once  but  he  wanted 
to  sign  the  callbook  at  home.  How  he  had 
envied  the  firemen  who  had  been  called  by 
him.  He  knew  just  how  it  would  be  written 
in  the  callbook  : 

Extra  West,  Eng.  —  Leave  8:15  A.  M. 
Engineer  Moran,  —  D.  Moron  7:15. 
Fireman  Cowels.  — 

And  there  was  the  blank  space  where  he 
would  write  his  name.  At  six  o'clock  he 
declared  to  his  mother  that  he  must  go 
down  and  get  his  engine  hot,  and  after  a 
hasty  good-bye  he  started.  Ten  minutes 
later  he  came  into  the  round-house  and 
asked  the  night  foreman  where  his  engine 
was. 

"  Well,"  said  the  foreman,  "  we  have  n't  got 
[  216  ] 


CHAPTER  XXII 


your  engine  yet,"  and  the  boy's  chin  dropped 
down  and  rested  upon  his  new  blue  blouse. 
"  I  guess  we  '11  have  to  send  you  out  on  one 
of  the  company's  engines  this  trip." 
There  was  a  great  roar  of  laughter  from  the 
wiping  gang  and  Bennie  looked  embarrassed. 
He  concluded  to  say  no  more  to  the  fore 
man,  but  went  directly  to  the  blackboard, 
got  the  number  and  found  the  engine  which 
had  been  assigned  to  the  gravel  train  be 
cause  she  was  not  fit  for  road  work.  A  sorry 
old  wreck  she  was,  covered  with  ashes  and 
grease,  but  it  made  little  difference  to  Ben 
nie  so  long  as  she  had  a  whistle  and  a  bell, 
and  he  set  to  work  to  stock  her  up  with  sup 
plies. 

He  had  drawn  supplies  for  many  a  tired 
fireman  in  his  leisure  moments  and  knew 
very  nearly  what  was  needed.  But  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  open  the  blower  and 
"get  her  hot."  He  got  the  foreman  hot, 
too,  and  in  a  little  while  he  heard  that  of 
ficial  shout  to  the  hostler  to  "  run  the  scrap 
[  217  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


heap  out-doors,  and  put  that  fresh  kid  in  the 
tank." 

Bennie  didn't  mind  the  reference  to  the 
"  fresh  kid,"  but  he  thought  the  foreman 
might  have  called  her  something  better  than 
a  scrap  heap,  but  he  was  a  smart  boy  and 
knew  that  it  would  be  no  use  to  "  kick." 
It  was  half-past  seven  when  Mrs.  Cowels 
opened  the  door  in  answer  to  the  bell,  and 
blushed,  and  glanced  down  at  her  big  apron. 
"  I  thought  I  'd  look  in  on  my  way  to  the 
round-house,"  said  Moran,  removing  his  hat, 
"  for  Bennie." 

"  Why,  the  dear  boy  has  been  gone  an  hour 
and  a  half,  but  I  'm  glad  (won't  you  come 
in  ?  )  you  called  for  he  has  forgotten  his 
gloves." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  engineer,  "  the  fact 
is  I  'm  a  little  late,  for  I  don't  know  what 
sort  of  a  scrap  pile  I  have  to  take  out  and 
I  'd  like,  of  course,  to  go  underneath  her  be 
fore  she  leaves  the  round-house,  so  I  can't 
come  in  this  morning." 

[   218  ] 


CHAPTER  XXII 


When  Mrs.  Cowels  had  given  him  the 
gloves  he  took  her  hand  to  say  good-bye, 
and  the  wife  of  one  of  the  new  men,  who 
saw  it,  said  afterwards  that  he  held  it  longer 
than  was  necessary,  just  to  say  good-bye. 
When  Dan  reached  the  round-house  Bennie 
was  up  on  top  of  the  old  engine  oiling  the 
bell.  What  would  an  engine  without  a  bell 
be  to  a  boy  ?  And  yet  in  Europe  they 
have  no  bells,  but  there  is  a  vast  difference 
between  the  American  and  the  European 
boy. 

Moran  stopped  in  the  round-house  long 
enough  to  read  the  long  list  of  names  on  the 
blackboard.  They  were  nearly  all  new  to 
him,  as  were  the  faces  about,  and  he  turned 
away. 

The  orders  ran  them  extra  to  Aurora,  avoid 
ing  regular  trains.  Moran  glanced  at  the 
faces  of  all  the  incoming  engineers  as  he 
met  and  passed  them,  but  with  one  excep 
tion  they  were  all  strangers  to  him.  He  rec 
ognized  young  Guerin,  who  had  been  fireman 
[  219  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


on  Blackwings  the  night  George  Cowels  was 
killed,  and  he  was  now  running  a  passenger 
engine. 

"  How  the  mushrooms  have  vegetated  here 
abouts,"  thought  Moran,  as  he  glanced  up 
at  the  stack  of  the  old  work  engine,  but  he 
was  never  much  of  a  kicker,  so  he  would 
not  kick  now.  This  wasn't  much  of  a  run, 
but  it  beat  looking  for  a  better  one. 
"  Not  so  much  coal,  Bennie.  Take  your 
clinker  hook  and  level  it  off.  That's  it,— 
see  the  black  smoke  ?  Keep  your  furnace 
door  shut.  Now  look  at  your  stack  again. 
See  the  yellow  smoke  hanging  'round  ? 
Rake  her  down  again.  Now  it  's  black,  and 
if  it  burns  clear  —  see  there  ?  There  is  no 
smoke  at  all  ;  that  shows  that  her  fire  is 
level.  Sweep  up  your  deck  now  while  you 
rest." 


[  220  ] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY  THIRD 

ONE  night  when  the  Limited  was  roaring 
up  from  the  Missouri  River  against  one  or 
those  March  rains  that  come  out  of  the 
east,  there  came  to  Patsy  one  of  the  temp 
tations  that  are  hardest  for  a  man  of  his 
kind  nature  to  withstand.  The  trial  began 
at  Galesburg.  Patsy  was  hugging  the  rear 
end  of  the  day  coach  in  order  to  keep  out 
of  the  cruel  storm,  when  his  eyes  rested 
upon  the  white  face  of  a  poorly  clad  wo 
man.  She  stood  motionless  as  a  statue,, 
voiceless  as  the  Sphinx,  with  the  cold  rain 
beating  upon  her  uplifted  face,  until  Patsy 
cried  "  All  aboard."  Then  she  pulled  herself 
together  and  climbed  into  the  train.  The 
conductor,  leaving  his  white  light  upon  the 
platform  of  the  car,  stepped  down  and 
helped  the  dripping  woman  into  the  coach. 
When  the  train  had  dashed  away  again  up 
the  rain-swept  night,  Patsy  found  the  wet 
passenger  rocking  to  and  fro  on  the  little 
seat  that  used  to  run  lengthwise  of  the  car 
[  221  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


up  near  the  stove,  before  the  use  of  steam 
heat. 

"  Ticket,"  said  the  conductor. 
The  woman   lifted    her    eyes    to  his,   but 
seemed  to  be  staring  at  something  beyond. 
"  Ticket,  please." 

"Yes  —  y-e-a-s,"  she   spoke  as  though  the 
effort  caused  her  intense  pain.  "  I  want  — 
to  —  go  to  Chicago." 
"  Yes.  Have  you  a  ticket  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  " 
"  Where  's  what  ?  " 
"  Where  's  your  ticket  ?  " 
"  I  ain't  got  no  ticket." 
"  Have  you  got  money  ?  " 
"  No.  I  do'  want  money.  I  jist  want  you  to 
take  me  to  Chicago." 

"  But  I  can't  take  you  without  you  pay 
fare." 

"  Can't  you  ?  I  Ve  been   standin'  there  in 

the   rain  all  night,  but  nobody  would  let 

me  on  the  train  —  all  the  trains  is  gone  but 

[  222  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


this  one.  I  'd  most  give  up  when  you  said, 
'  Git  on,'  er  somethin'." 
"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  to  Chicago  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  I  must  be  there  fur  the  trial." 
"Who's  trial?" 

"  Terrence's.  They  think  my  boy,  Terrence, 
killed  a  man,  an'  I  'm  goin'  up  to  tell  th' 
judge.  Of  course,  they  don't  know  Terrence. 
He  's  wild  and  runs  around  a  heap,  but  he  's 
not  what  you  may  call  bad." 
The  poor  woman  was   hah0-  crazed  by  her 
grief,  and  her  blood  was  chilled  by  the  cold 
rain.  She  could  not  have  been  wetter  at  the 
bottom  of  Lake  Michigan.  When  she  ceased 
speaking,  she  shivered. 
"  It  was  good  in  you  to  let  me  git  on,  an'  I 
thank  you  very  kindly." 
"  But  I  can't  carry  you  unless  you  can  pay." 
"  Oh  !  I  kin  walk  soon  's  we  git  ther." 
"  But  you  can't  get  there.  I  '11  have  to  stop 
and  put  you  off." 

The  unhappy  woman  opened  her  eyes  and 
mouth  and  stared  at  the  conductor. 
[  223  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


"Put—  me—  off?" 
"Yes." 

"  It  's  rainin'  ain't  it  ?  "  She  shivered  again, 
and  tried  to  look  out  into  the  black  night. 
"  Don't  you  know  better  than  to  get  onto 
a  train  without  a  ticket  or  money  to  pay 
your  fare  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  they  '11  hang  Terrence,  they  '11 
hang  'im,  they  '11  hang  'im,"  and  she  moaned 
and  rocked  herself. 

Patsy  went  on  through  the  train  and  when  he 
came  back  the  woman  was  still  rocking  and 
staring  blankly  at  the  floor,  as  he  had  found 
her  before.  She  had  to  look  at  him  for  some 
time  before  she  could  remember  him. 
"  Can't  you  go  no  faster  ?  " 
Patsy  sighed. 
"What  time  is  it?" 
"  Six  o'clock." 

"  Will  we  git  there  by  half  after  nine  ?  —  th' 
trial  's  at  ten." 
"  Yes." 

Patsy  sat  down  and  looked  at  the  wreck. 
[  224  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


"  Now,  a  man  who  could  put  such  a  woman 
off,  in  such  a  storm,  at  such  an  hour,  and 
with  a  grief  like  that,"  said  Patsy  to  him 
self,  "would  pasture  a  goat  on  his  grand 
mother's  grave." 

When  Patsy  woke  at  two  o'clock  that  after 
noon,  he  picked  up  a  noon  edition  of  an  all- 
day  paper,  and  the  very  first  word  he  read 
was  "  Not  guilty."  That  was  the  heading  of 
the  police  news. 

"  There  was  a  pathetic  scene  in  Judge 
Meyer's  court  this  morning  at  the  prelimi 
nary  hearing  of  the  case  of  Terrence  Cassidy, 
charged  with  the  murder  of  the  old  farmer 
at  Spring  Bank  on  Monday  last.  All  efforts 
to  draw  a  confession  from  Cassidy  had  failed, 
and  the  detectives  had  come  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  he  was  either  very  innocent  or 
very  guilty  —  there  was  no  purgatory  for 
Terrence  ;  it  was  heaven  or  the  hot  place, 
according  to  the  detectives.  For  once  the 
detectives  were  right.  Terrence  was  very  in- 
[  225  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


nocent.  It  appears  that  the  tramp  who  was 
killed  on  the  Wabash  last  night  made  a 
confession  to  the  trainmen,  after  being  hit 
by  the  engine,  to  the  effect  that  he  had 
murdered  the  old  farmer,  and  afterwards, 
at  the  point  of  an  empty  pistol,  forced  a 
young  Irishman,  whom  he  met  upon  the 
railroad  track,  to  exchange  clothes  with 
him.  That  accounts  for  the  blood  stains 
upon  Cassidy's  coat,  but,  of  course,  nobody 
credited  his  story. 

"  The  tramp's  confession,  however,  was  wired 
to  the  general  manager  of  the  Wabash  by 
the  conductor  of  the  out-going  train,  to 
gether  with  a  description  of  the  tramp's 
clothes,  which  description  tallies  with  that 
given  of  those  garments  worn  by  Cassidy. 
"  This  good  news  did  not  reach  the  court, 
however,  until  after  the  prisoner  had  been 
arraigned.  When  asked  the  usual  question, 
*  Guilty,  or  not  guilty  ?  '  the  boy  stood  up 
and  was  about  to  address  some  remarks  to 
the  court,  when  suddenly  there  rushed  into 
[  226  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


the  room  about  the  sorriest  looking  woman 
who  ever  stood  before  a  judge.  She  was 
poorly  clad,  wet  as  a  rat,  haggard  and  pale. 
Her  voice  was  hoarse  and  unearthly.  No 
body  seemed  to  see  her  enter.  Suddenly,  as 
if  she  had  risen  from  the  floor,  she  stood  at 
the  railing,  raised  a  trembling  hand  and 
shouted,  as  well  as  she  could  shout,  'Not 
guilty  !  ' 

"  Before  the  bewildered  judge  could  lift  his 
gavel,  the  prosecuting  attorney  rose,  dra 
matically,  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  read 
a  telegram  that  had  just  been  received, 
which  purported  to  be  the  signed  confession 
of  a  dying  man. 

"  As  might  be  expected,  there  were  not 
many  dry  eyes  in  that  court  when,  a  mo 
ment  later,  the  boy  was  sobbing  on  his 
mother's  wet  shoulder,  and  she,  rocking  to 
and  fro,  was  saying  softly  'Poor  Terrence, 
my  poor  Terrence.'  " 

As  Patsy  was  walking  back  from  Hooley's 
[  227  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Theatre,  where  he  had  gone  to  get  tickets 

(this  was  his  night  off),  he  met  the  acting 

chief  clerk  in  one  of  the  departments  to 

which,  under  the  rules  then  in  vogue,  he 

owed  allegiance. 

"I  want  to  see  you  at  the  office,"  said  the 

amateur  official,  and  Patsy  was  very  much 

surprised  at  the  brevity  of  the  speech.  He 

went   up  to   his   room  and   tried   to  read, 

but  the  ever  recurring  thought  that  he  was 

"wanted  at  the  office"  disturbed  him  and 

he  determined  to  go  at  once  and  have  it 

out. 

The  conductor  removed  his  hat  in  the  au 

gust  presence  and  asked,  timidly,  what  was 

wanted. 

"  You  ought  to  know,"  said  the  great  judge. 

"  But  I  don't,"  said  Patsy,  taking  courage 

as   he   arrayed   himself,  with   a  clear   con 

science,  on  the  defensive. 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of  carrying  people 

on  the  Denver  Limited  who  have  no  trans 

portation  ?  " 

[  228  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


"  No,  sir." 

"Then,  how  does  it  happen  that  you  car 
ried  a  woman  from  Galesburg  to  Chicago 
last    night    who    had    neither    ticket    nor 
money,  so  far  as  we  know  ?  It  will  do  you 
no  good  to  deny  it,  for  I  have  the  report  of 
a  special  agent  before  me,  and  —  " 
"  I  have  no  desire  to  deny  it,  sir.  All  I  deny 
is  that  this  is  your  business." 
"  What  ?  "  yelled  the  official. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  should  not  have 
spoken  in  that  way  ;  but  what  I  wish  to  say 
and  wish  you  to  understand  is  that  I  owe 
you  no  explanation." 
"  I  stand  for  the  company,  sir." 
"  So  do  I,  and  have  stood  as  many  years  as 
you  have  months.  I  have  handled  as  many 
dollars   for    them   as   you    have   ever   seen 
dimes,   and,  what's   more   to   the   point,   I 
stand  ready  to  quit  the  moment  the  man 
agement  loses  confidence  in  me,  and  with 
the  assurance  of  a  better  job.  Can  all  the 
great  men  say  as  much  ?  " 
[  229  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


The  force  and  vehemence  of  the  excited  and 
indignant  little  Irishman  caused  the  "  man 
agement  "  to  pause  in  its  young  career. 
"  Will  you  tell  me  why  you   carried   this 
woman  who  had  no  ticket  ?  " 
"  No.  I  have  rendered  unto  Cassar  that  which 
is  Caesar's.  For  further  particulars,  see  my 
report,"  and  with  that  Patsy  walked  out. 
"  Let  's  see,  let  's  see,"  said   the  "  manage 
ment  "  ;    "  '  Two    passengers,    Galesburg   to 
Chicago,  one   ticket,  one  cash  fare.'  What 
an  ass  I've  made  of  myself;  but,  just  wait 
till  I  catch  that  Hawkshaw." 


[  230  ] 


CHAPTER    TWENTY-FOURTH 

"  Always  together  in  sunshine  and  rain, 
Facing  the  weather  atop  o"1  the  train, 
Watching-  the  meadows  move  under  the  stars  ,- 
Always  together  atop  o"1  the  cars" 

JT  ATSY  was  just  singing  it  soft  and  low  to 
himself,  and  not  even  thinking  of  the  song, 
for  he  was  not  riding  "  atop  o'  the  cars " 
now.  With  his  arm  run  through  the  bail 
of  his  nickel-plated,  white  light,  he  was 
taking  the  numbers  and  initials  of  the  cars 
in  the  Denver  Limited.  He  was  a  handsome 
fellow,  and  the  eight  or  ten  years  that  had 
passed  lightly  over  his  head  since  he  came 
singing  himself  into  the  office  of  the  general 
manager  to  ask  for  a  pass  over  a  competing 
line,  had  rounded  out  his  figure,  and  given 
him  a  becoming  mustache,  but  they  had 
left  just  a  shade  of  sadness  upon  his  sunny 
face.  The  little  mother  whom  he  used  to 
visit  at  Council  Bluffs  had  fallen  asleep 
down  by  the  dark  Missouri,  and  he  would 
not  see  her  again  until  he  reached  the  end 
[  231  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


of  his  last  run.  And  that  's  what  put  the 
shadow  upon  his  sunny  face.  The  white 
light,  held  close  to  his  bright,  new  uniform, 
flashed  over  his  spotless  linen,  and  set  his 
buttons  ablaze. 

"  Ah  there,  my  beauty  !  any  room  for  dead 
heads  to-night  ?  " 

Patsy  turned  to  his  questioner,  closed  his 
train-book  and  held  out  his  hand  :  "  Always 
room  for  the  Irish  ;  where  are  you  tagged 
for?" 

"  The  junction." 
"  But  we  don't  stop  there." 
"  I  know,  but  I  thought  Moran  might  slow 
her  down  to  about  twenty  posts,  and  I  can 
fall  off  —  I  missed  the  local." 
"  I  Ve  got  a  new  man,"  said   Patsy,  "  and 
he  '11  be  a  bit  nervous  to-night,  but  if  we 
hit  the  top  of  Zero  Hill  on  the  dot  we  11 
let  you  off;  if  not,  we  '11  carry  you  through, 
and  you  can  come  back  on  No.  4." 
"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Philosopher,  "  but 
I  'm  sorry  to  trouble  you." 
[  232  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


"And  I  don't  intend  you  shall;  just  step 
back  to  the  outside  gate  and  flag  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Moran,  and  don't  let  him  buy  a  ticket 
for  the   sleeper  ;   I  Ve  got  passes  for  him 
right  through  to  the  coast." 
As  the  Philosopher  went  back  to  "flag," 
Patsy  went  forward  to  the  engine.  "  If  you 
hit  Zero  Junction  on  time,  Guerin,  I  wish 
you'd  slow  down  and  let  the  agent  off," 
said  the  conductor. 
"And  if  I'm  late?" 
"  Don't  stop." 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  driver,  "  we  '11  not 
be  apt  to  stop,  for  it  's  a  wild  night,  Patsy  ; 
a  slippery  rail  and  almost  a  head  wind." 
"Nothing  short  of  a  blizzard  can  check 
Blackwings,"  said  Patsy,  going  to  the  rear. 
The  day  coaches  were  already  well  filled, 
and  the  sleeping-car  conductors  were  busy 
putting  their  people  away  when  the  Phil 
osopher  came  down  the  platform  accom 
panied  by  the  veteran  engineer,  his  pretty 
wife,  and  her  bright  little  girl.  Mrs.  Moran 
[  233  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


and  her  daughter  entered  the  sleeper,  while 
her  husband  and  the  station  master  remained 
outside  to  finish  their  cigars. 
"What  a  magnificent  train,"  observed  the 
old  engineer,  as  the  two  men  stood  looking 
at  the  Limited. 

"Finest  in  all  the  West,"  the  Philosopher  re 
plied.  "Open  from  the  tank  to  the  tail-lamps  : 
all  ablaze  with  electric  lights;  just  like  the  At 
lantic  liners  we  read  about  in  the  magazines. 
Ever  been  on  one  of  those  big  steamers,  Dan  ?" 
"No,  and  I  never  want  to  be.  Never  get 
me  out  o'  sight  o'  land.  Then  they're  too 
blamed  slow;  draggin'  along  in  the  dark 
ness,  eighteen  and  twenty  miles  an  hour, 
and  nowhere  to  jump." 
"And  yet  they  say  we  kill  more  people 
than  they  do." 

"  I  know  they  say  so,"  said  the  engineer, 
"  but  they  kill  'em  so  everlastingly  dead.  A 
man  smashed  up  in  a  wreck  on  the  road 
may  recover,  but  a  man  drowned  a  thou 
sand  miles  from  anywhere  has  no  show." 
[  234  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


Patsy,  coining  from  the  station,  joined  the 
two  dead-heads,  and  Moran,  glancing  at  his 
watch,  asked  the  cause  of  delay. 
"  Waiting  for  a  party  of  English  tourists," 
said  Patsy  ;  "  they  're  coming  over  the  Grand 
Trunk,  and  the  storm  has  delayed  them." 
"And  that  same  storm  will  delay  you  to 
night,  my  boy,  if  I  'm  any  guesser,"  observed 
the  old  engineer.  "  I  'd  go  over  and  ride  with 
Guerin,  but  I  'm  afraid  he  would  n't  take 
it  well.  That  engine  is  as  quick  as  chain- 
lightning,  and  with  a  greasy  rail  like  this 
she'll  slip  going  down  hill,  and  the  more 
throttle  he  gives  her  the  slower  she'll  go. 
And  what  's  more,  she  '11  do  it  so  smoothly, 
that,  blinded  by  the  storm,  he  '11  never 
know  she  's  slipping  till  she  tears  her  fire  all 
out  and  comes  to  a  dead  stall." 
The  old  engineer  knew  just  how  to  prevent 
all  that,  but  he  was  afraid  that  to  offer  any  sug 
gestion  might  wound  the  pride  of  the  young 
man,  whom  he  did  not  know  very  well.  True, 
he  had  asked  the  master-mechanic  to  put 
[  235  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Guerin  on  the  run,  but  only  because  he  dis 
liked  the  Reading  man  who  was  next  in  line. 
Mrs.  Moran  came  from  the  car  now,  and 
asked  to  be  taken  to  the  engine  where  she 
and  her  daughter  might  say  good-bye  to 
Bennie  who  was  now  the  regular  fireman 
on  Blackwings.  "  Bennie,"  said  his  step 
father,  "  see  that  your  sand-pipes  are  open." 
While  Bennie  talked  with  his  mother  and 
sister,  Moran  chatted  with  the  engineer.  "  I 
want  to  thank  you,"  said  Guerin,  "  for  help 
ing  me  to  this  run  during  your  absence,  and 
I  shall  try  to  take  good  care  of  both  Bennie 
and  Blackwings." 

"  It  is  n't  worth  mentioning,"  said  Moran 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  "they  do  these 
things  to  suit  themselves." 
"  Now,  if  she  's  got  any  tricks,"  said  Guerin, 
"  I  'd  be  glad  to  know  them,  for  I  don't 
want  to  disgrace  the  engine  by  losing  time. 
I  Ve  been  trying  to  pump  the  boy,  but  he  's 
as  close  as  a  clam." 

"  Well,  that  's  not  a  common  fault  with  fire- 
[  236  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


men,"  said  Moran,  with  his  quiet  smile. 
"  The  only  thing  I  can  say  about  Black- 
wings,"  he  went  on,  for  he  had  been  aching 
to  say  it,  "  is  that  she  's  smart,  and  on  a  rail 
like  this  you  '11  have  to  humor  her  a  little  — 
drop  her  down  a  notch  and  ease  up  on  the 
throttle,  especially  when  you  have  a  heavy 
train.  She  's  mighty  slippery." 
Guerin  thanked  him  for  the  tip,  and  the  old 
engineer,  feeling  greatly  relieved,  went  back 
to  where  Patsy  and  the  Philosopher  were 
"  railroading."  They  had  been  discussing  the 
vestibule.  The  Philosopher  had  remarked 
that  recently  published  statistics  established 
the  fact  that  when  a  solid  vestibuled  train 
came  into  collision  with  an  old-fashioned 
open  train  of  the  same  weight,  the  latter 
would  go  to  splinters  while  the  vestibuled 
train  would  remain  intact,  on  the  principle 
that  a  sleeping  car  is  harder  to  wreck  when 
the  berths  are  down,  because  they  brace  the 
structure.  "  The  vestibule,"  continued  the 
Philosopher,  "is  a  life-saver,  and  a  great 
[  237  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


comfort  to  people  who  travel  first  class,  but 
this  same   inventor,  who  has  perfected  so 
many  railway  appliances,  has   managed   in 
one  way  or  another  to  help  all  mankind. 
He  has  done  as  much  for  the  tramp  as  for 
the  millionaire.  Take  the  high  wheel,  for  in 
stance.  Why,  I  remember  when  I  was  '  on 
the  road'  that  you  had  to  get  down  and 
crawl  to  get  under  a  sleeper,  and  sit  doubled 
up  like  a  crawfish  all  the  while.  I  remember 
when  the  Pennsylvania  put  on  a  lot  of  big, 
twelve-wheeled  cars.  A  party  of  us  got  to 
gether  under  a  water  tank  down  near  Pitts 
burgh  and  held  a  meeting.  It  was  on  the 
Fourth  of  July  and  we  sent  a  copy  of  our 
resolutions  to  the  president  of  the  sleeping 
car  company  at  Chicago.  The  report  was 
written  with  charcoal  upon  some  new  shin 
gles  which  we  found  near,  and  sent  by  ex 
press,  '  collect.'  I  remember  how  it  read  : 
'At  the  First  Annual  Convention  of  the 
Tramps'   Protective  Association  of  North 
America,  it  was 

[  238  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


'Resolved:  That  this  union  feels  itself  deeply 
indebted  to  the  man  who  has  introduced 
upon  American  railways  the  high  wheel  and 
the  triple  truck.  And  be  it  further 
'Resolved:  That  all  self-respecting  mem 
bers  of  this  fraternity  shall  refrain  from 
riding  on,  or  in  any  way  encouraging,  such 
slow-freight  lines  as  may  still  hold  to  the 
old-fashioned,  eight-wheeled,  dirt-dragging 
sleeper,  blind  to  their  own  interest  and  dead 
to  the  world.'  " 

"  All  aboard,"  cried  Patsy,  and  the  Denver 
Limited  left  Chicago  just  ten  minutes  late. 
The  moment  they  had  passed  beyond  the 
shed  the  storm  swept  down  from  the  North 
west  and  plastered  the  wet  snow  against  the 
windows.  Slowly  they  worked  their  way  out 
of  the  crowded  city,  over  railway  crossings, 
between  guarded  gates,  and  left  the  lights 
of  Chicago  behind  them.  The  scores  of  pas 
sengers  behind  the  double-glassed  windows 
chatted  or  perused  the  evening  papers. 
Nearly  all  the  male  members  of  the  English 
[  239  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


party  had  crowded  into  the  smoking-rooms 
of  the  sleepers  to  enjoy  their  pipes.  Patsy, 
after  working  the  train,  sat  down  to  visit 
with  the  Morans.  The  old  engineer  had 
been  hurt  in  a  wreck  and  the  company  had 
generously  given  him  a  two  months'  leave 
of  absence,  with  transportation  and  full 
pay,  and  he  was  going  to  spend  the  time 
in  Southern  California.  The  officials  were 
beginning  to  share  the  opinion  of  Mr. 
Watchem,  the  famous  detective  who  had 
declared,  when  Moran  was  in  prison,  that 
he  ought  to  be  wearing  a  medal  instead  of 
handcuffs.  He  had  battled,  single-handed 
and  alone,  with  a  desperado  who  was  all 
fenced  about  with  firearms,  saved  the  com 
pany's  property  and,  it  might  be,  the  lives 
of  passengers.  Later  he  had  taken  the  dyna 
mite  from  the  engine  to  prevent  its  explod 
ing,  wrecking  the  machine  and  killing  the 
crew.  And  rather  than  inform  upon  the 
wretch  who  had  committed  the  crime  he 
had  gone  to  prison,  and  had  borne  disgrace. 
[  240  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


With  the  exception  of  Patsy,  Moran,  and 
his  wife,  none  of  the  passengers  gave  a 
thought  to  the  "fellows  up  ahead."  Before 
leaving  Chicago  Guerin  had  advised  the 
youthful  fireman  to  stretch  a  piece  of  bell- 
rope  from  the  cab  to  the  tank  to  prevent 
him  from  falling  out  through  the  gangway, 
for  he  intended  to  make  up  the  ten  minutes 
if  it  were  in  the  machine.  The  storm  had 
increased  so  that  the  rail  had  passed  the 
slippery  stage,  for  it  is  only  a  damp  rail 
that  is  greasy.  A  very  wet  rail  is  almost 
as  good  as  a  dry  one,  and  Blackwings  was 
picking  her  train  up  beautifully.  This  was 
the  engine  upon  which  Guerin  had  made 
his  maiden  trip  as  fireman,  and  the  thought 
of  that  dreadful  night  saddened  him.  Here 
was  where  Cowels  sat  when  he  showed  him 
the  cruel  message.  Here  in  this  very  win 
dow  he  had  held  him,  and  there  was  the 
identical  arm-rest  over  which  hung  the 
body  of  the  dead  engineer.  And  this  was 
his  boy.  How  the  years  fly!  He  looked  at 
[  241  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


the  boy,  and  the  boy  was  looking  at  him 
with  his  big,  sad  eyes.  The  furnace  door 
was  ajar,  and  the  cab  was  as  light  as  day. 
Guerin  had  always  felt  that  in  some  vague 
way  he  was  responsible  for  Cowels's  death, 
and  now  the  boy's  gaze  made  him  uncom 
fortable.  Already  the  snow  had  banked 
against  the  windows  on  his  side  and  closed 
them.  He  crossed  over  to  the  fireman's  side, 
and  looked  ahead.  The  headlight  was  almost 
covered,  but  they  were  making  good  time. 
He  guessed,  from  the  vibration  that  marked 
the  revolutions  of  the  big  drivers,  that  she 
must  be  making  fifty  miles  an  hour.  Now 
she  began  to  roll,  and  her  bell  began  to 
toll,  like  a  distant  church-bell  tolling  for 
the  dead,  and  he  crossed  back  to  his  own 
side.  Both  Moran  and  Patsy  were  pleased 
for  they  knew  the  great  engine  was  doing 
her  work.  "When  one  of  these  heavy 
sleepers  stops  swinging,"  said  Patsy,  "and 
just  seems  to  stand  still  and  shiver,  she's 
going  ;  and  when  she  begins  to  slam  her 
[  242  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


flanges  up  against  the  rail,  first  one  side 
and  then  the  other,  she  has  passed  a  sixty- 
mile  gait,  and  that  's  what  this  car  is  doing 
now." 

Mrs.  Moran  said  good-night,  and  disap 
peared  behind  the  silken  curtain  of  "  lower 
six,"  where  her  little  girl  was  already  sound 
asleep.  Only  a  few  men  remained  in  the 
smoking-rooms,  and  they  were  mostly  Eng 
lish. 

Steam  began  to  flutter  from  the  dome 
above  the  back  of  Blackwings.  The  fireman 
left  the  door  on  the  latch  to  keep  her  cool 
and  save  the  water  ;  the  engineer  opened 
the  injector  a  little  wider  to  save  the  steam  ; 
the  fireman  closed  the  door  again  to  keep 
her  hot  ;  and  that  's  the  way  men  watch  each 
other  on  an  engine,  to  save  a  drop  of  water 
or  an  ounce  of  steam,  and  that's  the  best 
trick  of  the  trade. 

Guerin  looked  out  at  the  fireman's  window 

again.    The    headlight    was    now    entirely 

snowed  in  and  the  big  black  machine  was 

[  243  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


poking  her  nose  into  the  night  at  the  rate  of 
a  mile  a  minute. 

"  My  God  !  how  she  rolls,"  said  Guerin,  go 
ing  back  to  his  place  again.  Of  a  sudden  she 
began  to  quicken  her  pace,  as  though  the 
train  had  parted.  She  might  be  slipping— 
he  opened  the  sand  lever.  No,  she  was  hold 
ing  the  rail,  and  then  he  knew  that  they 
had  tipped  over  Zero  Hill.  He  cut  her  back 
a  notch,  but  allowed  the  throttle  to  remain 
wide  open.  Bennie  saw  the  move  and  left 
the  door  ajar  again.  He  knew  where  they 
were  and  wondered  that  Guerin  did  not 
ease  off  a  bit,  but  he  had  been  taught  by 
Moran  to  fire  and  leave  the  rest  to  the  en 
gineer.  Guerin  glanced  at  his  watch.  He 
was  one  minute  over-due  at  Zero  Junction, 
a  mile  away.  At  the  end  of  another  minute 
he  would  have  put  that  station  behind  him, 
less  than  two  minutes  late.  He  was  making 
a  record  for  himself.  He  was  demonstrating 
that  it  is  the  daring  young  driver  who  has 
the  sand  to  go  up  against  the  darkness  as 
[  244  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


fast  as  wheels  can  whirl.  He  wished  the 
snow  was  off  the  headlight.  He  knew  the 
danger  of  slamming  a  train  through  stations 
without  a  ray  of  light  to  warn  switchmen 
and  others,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  send  the  boy  out  to  the  front  end  in 
that  storm  the  way  she  was  rolling.  And 
she  did  roll  ;  and  with  each  roll  the  bell 
tolled  !  tolled  !  !  like  a  church  bell  tolling 
for  the  dead.  The  snow  muffled  the  rail,  and 
the  cry  of  the  whistle  would  not  go  twenty 
rods  against  that  storm  ;  and  twenty  rods, 
when  you  're  making  a  mile  and  a  half  in 
a  minute,  gives  barely  time  to  cross  your 
self. 

About  the  time  they  tipped  over  the  hill 
the  night  yard  master  came  from  the  tele 
graph  office,  down  at  the  junction,  and 
twirled  a  white  light  at  a  switch  engine  that 
stood  on  a  spur  with  her  nose  against  an 
empty  express  car.  "  Back  up,"  he  shouted  : 
"  and  kick  that  car  in  on  the  house  track." 
"  The  Limited  's  due  in  a  minute,"  said  the 
[  245  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


switch   engineer,   turning  the   gauge   lamp 
upon  his  watch. 

"  Well,  you  're  runnin'  the  engine  —  I  'm 
runnin'  the  yard,"  said  the  official,  giving 
his  lamp  another  whirl,  and  the  engine  with 
the  express  car  backed  away.  The  yard  mas 
ter  unbent  sufficiently  to  say  to  the  switch 
man  on  the  engine  that  the  Limited  was 
ten  minutes  late,  adding,  that  she  would 
probably  be  fifteen  at  the  junction,  for  it 
was  storming  all  along  the  line.  The  snow 
had  packed  in  about  the  switch-bridle  and 
made  it  hard  to  move,  but  finally,  with 
the  help  of  the  fireman,  the  switch  was 
turned,  and  the  yard  engine  stood  on  the 
main  track.  The  engineer  glanced  over  his 
shoulder,  but  there  was  nothing  behind  him 
save  the  storm-swept  night.  Suddenly  he 
felt  the  earth  tremble,  and,  filled  with  inde 
scribable  horror,  he  pulled  the  whistle  open 
and  leaped  through  the  window.  The  cry 
of  the  yard  engine  was  answered  by  a  wild 
shriek  from  Blackwings.  Guerin  closed  the 
[  246  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


throttle,  put  on  the  air  and  opened  the  sand- 
valves.  The  sound  of  that  whistle,  blown 
back  over  the  train,  fell  upon  the  ears  of 
Patsy  and  the  two  dead-heads,  and  filled 
them  with  fear.  A  second  later  they  felt  the 
clamp  of  brake-shoes  applied  with  full  force  ; 
felt  the  grinding  of  sand  beneath  the  wheels, 
and  knew  that  something  was  wrong.  The 
old  engineer  tore  the  curtains  back  from 
"lower  six,"  and  spread  out  his  arms,  pla 
cing  one  foot  against  the  foot  of  the  berth, 
and  threw  himself  on  top  of  the  two  sleep 
ers.  Patsy  and  the  Philosopher  braced  them 
selves  against  the  seat  in  front  of  them,  and 
waited  the  shock.  Bennie  heard  the  whistle, 
too,  and  went  out  into  the  night,  not  know 
ing  where  or  how  he  would  light.  Young 
Guerin  had  no  time  to  jump.  He  had  work 
to  do.  His  left  hand  fell  from  the  whistle- 
rope  to  the  air-brake,  and  it  was  applied 
even  while  his  right  hand  shoved  the  throt 
tle  home,  and  opened  the  sand-  valves  —  and 
then  the  crash  came.  Being  higher  built, 
[  247  ] 


SNOW  ON  THE  HEADLIGHT 


Blackwings  shot  right  over  the  top  of  the 
yard  engine,  turned  end  for  end,  and  lay 
with  her  pilot  under  the  mail  car,  which 
was  telescoped  into  the  express  car.  The 
balance  of  the  train,  surging,  straining,  and 
trembling,  came  to  a  stop,  with  all  wheels 
on  the  rail,  thanks  to  the  faithful  driver, 
and  the  open  sand-pipes.  The  train  had 
scarcely  stopped  when  the  conductor  and 
the  two  dead-heads  were  at  the  engine, 
searching,  amid  the  roar  of  escaping  steam, 
for  the  engine  crew.  A  moment  later  Ben- 
nie  came  limping  in  from  a  neighboring 
field  where  he  had  been  wallowing  in  a 
snow-drift.  The  operator,  rushing  from  the 
station,  stumbled  over  the  body  of  a  man. 
It  was  Guerin.  When  the  engine  turned 
over  he  had  been  hurled  from  the  cab 
and  slammed  up  against  the  depot,  fifty 
feet  away.  The  rescuers,  searching  about 
the  wreck,  shouted  and  called  to  the  occu 
pants  of  the  mail  car,  but  the  wail  of  the 
wounded  engine  drowned  their  voices.  In  a 
[  248  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


little  while  both  men  were  rescued  almost 
unhurt.  Now  all  the  employees  and  many 
passengers  gathered  about  the  engineer.  The 
station  master  held  Guerin's  head  upon  his 
knee,  while  Moran  made  a  hasty  examina 
tion  of  his  hurt.  There  was  scarcely  a  bone 
in  his  body  that  was  not  broken,  but  he  was 
still  alive.  He  opened  his  eyes  slowly,  and 
looked  about.  "I'm  cold!"  he  said  dis 
tinctly.  Patsy  held  his  white  light  close  to 
the  face  of  the  wounded  man.  His  eyes 
seemed  now  to  be  fixed  upon  something 
far  away.  "  Mercy,  but  I  'm  cold  !  "  he  said 
pathetically.  Now  all  the  women  were  weep 
ing,  and  there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  most 
of  the  men.  "  Raise  him  up  a  little,"  said 
Moran.  "  It  's  getting  dark,"  said  the  dying 
man,  "  Oh,  so  dark  !  It  must  be  the  snow  —  " 
and  he  closed  his  eyes  again  —  "snow  —  on 
—the  headlight." 

THE   END 


THE  STORY  or  THE  WEST  SERIES. 

Edited  by  RIPLEY  HITCHCOCK. 
Each,  Illustrated,  12mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

THE   STORY  OF  THE  RAILROAD. 

By  CY  WARMAN,  author  of  "  The  Express  Messenger" 

etc.  With  Maps,  and  many  Illustrations  by  B.  West 

Clinedinst  and  from  Photographs. 

As  we  understand  it,  the  editor's  ruling  idea  in  this  series  has 
not  been  to  present  chronology  or  statistics  or  set  essays  on  the 
social  and  political  development  of  the  great  West,  but  to  give 
to  us  vivid  pictures  of  the  life  and  the  times  in  the  period  of 
great  development,  and  to  let  us  see  the  men  at  their  work, 
their  characters,  and  their  motives.  The  choice  of  an  author 
has  been  fortunate.  In  Mr.  Warman's  book  we  are  kept  con 
stantly  reminded  of  the  fortitude,  the  suffering,  the  enterprise, 
and  the  endurance  of  the  pioneers.  We  see  the  glowing  imagi 
nation  of  the  promoter,  and  we  see  the  engineer  scouting  the 
plains  and  the  mountains,  fighting  the  Indians,  freezing  and 
starving,  and  always  full  of  a  keen  enthusiasm  for  his  work 
and  of  noble  devotion  to  his  duty.  The  construction  train  and 
the  Irish  boss  are  not  forgotten,  and  in  the  stories  of  their 
doings  we  find  not  only  courage  and  adventure,  but  wit  and 
humor.  —  The  Railroad  Gazette. 

THE   STORY  OF  THE   COWBOY. 

By  E.  HOUGH,  author  of"  The  Singing  Mouse  Stories,'"' 
etc.  Illustrated  by  William  L.  Wells  and  C.  M.  Russell. 

Mr.  Hough  is  to  be  thanked  for  having  written  so  excellent  a 
book.  The  cowboy  story,  as  this  author  has  told  it,  will  be  the 
cowboy's  fitting  eulogy.  This  volume  will  be  consulted  in  years 
to  come  as  an  authority  on  past  conditions  of  the  far  West.  For 
fine  literary  work  the  author  is  to  be  highly  complimented. 
Here,  certainly,  we  have  a  choice  piece  of  writing.  —  New  York 
Times. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


THE   STORY   OF  THE  MINE. 

As  Illustrated  by  the  Great  ComstocJc  Lode  of  Nevada. 
By  CHARLES  HOWARD  SHINN. 

Mr.  Shinn  writes  from  .  .  .  such  acquaintance  as  could  only 
be  gained  by  familiarity  with  the  men  and  the  places  described, 
.  .  .  and  by  the  fullest  appreciation  of  the  pervading  spirit  of 
the  Western  mining  camps  of  yesterday  and  to-day.  Thus  his 
book  has  a  distinctly  human  interest,  apart  from  its  value  as 
a  treatise  on  things  material.  — Review  of  Reviews. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE   INDIAN. 

By  GEORGE  BIRD  GRINNELL,  author  of"  Pawnee  Hero 
Stories"  " Blackfoot  Lodge  Tales"  etc. 

Only  an  author  qualified  by  personal  experience  could  offer  us 
a  profitable  study  of  a  race  so  alien  from  our  own  as  is  the  In 
dian  in  thought,  feeling,  and  culture.  Only  long  association 
with  Indians  can  enable  a  white  man  measurably  to  compre 
hend  their  thoughts  and  enter  into  their  feelings.  Such  associa 
tion  has  been  Mr.  GrinnelTs. — New  York  Sun. 


Books  by  Graham  Travers. 
WINDYHAUGH. 

A  Novel.  By  GRAHAM  TRAVERS,  author  of  "  Mona 

Maclean.  Medical  Student"  " Fellow  Travellers"  etc. 

12mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Windyhaugh  "  shows  an  infinitely  more  mature  skill  and  more 
subtle  humor  than  "  Mona  Maclean  "  and  a  profounder  insight 
into  life.  The  psychology  in  Dr.  Todd's  remarkable  book  is  all 
of  the  right  kind ;  and  there  is  not  in  English  fiction  a  more 
careful  and  penetrating  analysis  of  the  evolution  of  a  woman's 
mind  than  is  given  in  Wilhelmina  Galbraith ;  but  "Windy 
haugh"  is  not  a  book  in  which  there  is  only  one  "star"  and 
a  crowd  of  "supers."  Every  character  is  limned  with  a  con 
scientious  care  that  bespeaks  the  true  artist,  and  the  analytical 
interest  of  the  novel  is  rigorously  kept  in  its  proper  place  and 


is  only  one  element  in  a  delightful  story.  It  is  a  supremely  in 
teresting  and  wholesome  book,  and  in  an  age  when  excellence 
of  technique  has  reached  a  remarkable  level,  "  Windy haugh  " 
compels  admiration  for  its  brilliancy  of  style.  Dr.  Toad  paints 
on  a  large  canvas,  but  she  has  a  true  sense  of  proportion.  — 
BlackwoocCs  Magazine. 

For  truth  to  life,  for  adherence  to  a  clear  line  of  action,  for 
arrival  at  the  point  toward  which  it  has  aimed  from  the  first, 
such  a  book  as  "  Windyhaugh  "  must  be  judged  remarkable. 
There  is  vigor  and  brilliancy.  It  is  a  book  that  must  be  read 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  and  that  it  is  a  satisfaction  to 
have  read.  — Boston  Journal. 

Its  easy  style,  its  natural  characters,  and  its  general  tone  of 
earnestness  assure  its  author  a  high  rank  among  contemporary 
novelists. — Chicago  Tribune. 

MONA  MACLEAN. 

Medical  Student.  12mo.  Paper,  50  cents.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

A  pleasure  in  store  for  you  if  you  have  not  read  this  volume. 
The  author  has  given  us  a  thoroughly  natural  series  of  events, 
and  drawn  her  characters  like  an  artist.  It  is  the  story  of  a 
woman's  struggles  with  her  own  soul.  She  is  a  woman  of  re 
source,  a  strong  woman,  and  her  career  is  interesting  from 
beginning  to  end.  — New  York  Herald. 

"Mona  Maclean"  is  a  bright,  healthful,  winning  story.  — New 
York  Mail  and  Express. 
A  high-bred  comedy. — New  York  Times. 

FELLOW  TRAVELLERS. 

12mo.  Paper,  50  cents.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

The  stories  are  well  told ;  the  literary  style  is  above  the  aver 
age,  and  the  character  drawing  is  to  be  particularly  praised. 
.  .  .  Altogether,  the  little  book  is  a  model  of  its  kind,  and  its 
reading  will  give  pleasure  to  people  of  taste.  — Boston  Saturday 
Evening  Gazette. 

"Fellow  Travellers"  is  a  collection  of  very  brightly  written 
tales,  all  dealing,  as  the  title  implies,  with  the  mutual  relations 
of  people  thrown  together  casually  while  travelling.  — London 
Saturday  Review. 

D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY,  NEW   YORK. 


"A  Book  that  will  Live" 
DAVID   HARUM. 

A  Story  of  American  Life.  By  EDWARD  NOYES  WEST- 
COTT.  12mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

Thoroughly  a  pure,  original,  and  fresh  American  type.  David 
Harum  is  a  character  whose  qualities  of  mind  and  heart,  ec 
centricities,  and  dry  humor  will  win  for  his  creator  noble  dis 
tinction.  Buoyancy,  life,  and  cheerfulness  are  dominant  notes. 
In  its  vividness  and  force  the  story  is  a  strong,  fresh  picture  of 
American  life.  Original  and  true,  it  is  worth  the  same  distinc 
tion  which  is  accorded  the  genre  pictures  of  peculiar  types  and 
places  sketched  by  Mr.  George  W.  Cable,  Mr.  Joel  Chandler 
Harris,  Mr.  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  Miss  Wilkins,  Miss  Jewett, 
Mr.  Garland,  Miss  French,  Miss  Murfree,  Mr.  Gilbert  Parker, 
Mr.  Owen  Wister,  and  Bret  Harte.  — Boston  Herald. 
Mr.  Westcott  has  done  for  central  New  York  what  Mr.  Cable, 
Mr.  Page,  and  Mr.  Harris  have  done  for  different  parts  of  the 
South,  and  what  Miss  Jewett  and  Miss  Wilkins  are  doing  for 
New  England,  and  Mr.  Hamlin  Garland  for  the  West.  .  .  . 
"David  Harum"  is  a  masterly  delineation  of  an  American 
type.  .  .  .  Here  is  life  with  all  its  joys  and  sorrows.  .  .  . 
David  Harum  lives  in  these  pages  as  he  will  live  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader.  .  .  .  He  deserves  to  be  known  by  all  good 
Americans ;  he  is  one  of  them  in  boundless  energy,  in  large- 
heartedness,  in  shrewdness,  and  in  humor.  —  The  Critic. 
True,  strong,  and  thoroughly  alive,  with  a  humor  like  that  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  and  a  nature  as  sweet  at  the  core.  — Boston 
Literary  World. 

We  give  Edward  Noyes  Westcott  his  true  place  in  American 
letters  —  placing  him  as  a  humorist  next  to  Mark  Twain,  as  a 
master  of  dialect  above  Lowell,  as  a  descriptive  writer  equal  to 
Bret  Harte,  and,  on  the  whole,  as  a  novelist  on  a  par  with  the 
best  of  those  who  live  and  have  their  being  in  the  heart  of 
hearts  of  American  readers.  If  the  author  is  dead — lamentable 
fact — his  book  will  live. — Philadelphia  Item. 
The  main  character  .  .  .  will  probably  take  his  place  in  time 
beside  Joel  Chandler  Harris's  and  Thomas  Nelson  Page's  and 
Miss  Wilkins's  creations.  —  Chicago  Times-Herald. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


D.  B.  Updike 

The  Merrymount  Press 

104  Chestnut  St. 

Boston 


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